Go In and Sink! (10 page)

‘Down periscope.’ He stood back and rubbed his chin. It felt like sandpaper. ‘Increase to seven knots, Chief. We’ll miss this chap if we’re not careful.’

Even as the periscope hissed into its well Warwick shouted, ‘W/T report the signal, sir?’ He had his handset pressed to his ear, but was peering at the faces around him, shouting as if they were all deaf.

From the attack table Buck snarled, ‘Bearing, for Christ’s sake?’

Warwick gulped. ‘Approximately the same as this other boat. Sorry.’

Marshall crossed to the chart. They could only just hear the damaged submarine’s remaining screw, and as yet Speke had heard nothing of the big supply boat.
We must make more speed
. The
milch-cow
was probably lying directly ahead of their own course, with the damaged boat somewhere in between. He smiled grimly in spite of his nerves. Just like it said in the folio. True Teutonic precision.

He snapped, ‘Group up. Full ahead together. Twenty metres.’ He was thinking aloud. ‘We’ll get as close as we can to the first boat. Then we’ll surface. We must make more speed, but in any case the supply boat would be suspicious of any of her brood approaching submerged. She’d dive and be away, no matter how much trouble the other chap’s in.’

He saw Frenzel stooping over his panel, his dark features set in concentration. Calculating. Understanding.

At their maximum underwater speed it took about
fifteen
minutes to travel two miles. A lot could happen in that time.

‘Twenty metres, sir. Course two-five-zero.’ The coxswain looked very relaxed. Maybe like his captain he was glad to be doing something again.

Marshall gripped the edge of the chart table, trying to remain relaxed. It was hard to keep from looking at the clock. Watching the seconds becoming minutes. Matching them against heartbeats.

Speke said, ‘The range must be about six thousand yards, sir. It’s hard to tell. The one diesel sounds pretty dicey.’

Three miles. But for the mist he would have sighted the other boat. Even so, it was still too far to begin an attack. He must not think of this one, limping target. It was quite close enough. One fanned salvo and he could send her to the bottom. They would never know what had hit them. But the other submarine was something else entirely. They must be sure. Exact.

‘Diesel’s stopped, sir.’

‘
Blast!
’

Marshall moved to the periscope well and back again. The damaged boat probably had the
milch-cow
in sight. He could picture all of it in his mind. The relief, the weary lookouts numb with thanks as the massive hull hove in sight. And aboard the supply boat all the busy preparations to pipe fuel across to the battered survivor from some attack or other. Food and fresh clothing, expert mechanics waiting to send over spare parts. There would even be a surgeon aboard to care for the sick and wounded.

He heard himself say, ‘Stand by to surface. We will continue on electric motors, but be ready to switch to main engines as soon as we’re spotted. If we make a boob of this one we’ll not get another chance.’

He looked around their intent faces.

‘Sub you can muster your gun’s crew. See that they’re rigged out in German caps and lifejackets.’ He saw Churchill hovering by the attack table. ‘Fetch my cap.’

He knew his words had sunk in. That it was going to be close and quick. Dangerously so.

As Churchill scurried away he added quietly to Gerrard, ‘If we catch it on the surface, Bob, take her deep. Don’t try and save the deck party. Just get the hell out of it.’

Gerrard nodded, his eyes grave. ‘Right.’

‘And forget the other rendezvous. If we blow this one they’ll have every U-boat from here to Calais waiting for you.’ He slung his glasses closer around his neck and took the white cap from Churchill, touching the salt-stained eagle, the swastika in its claws. ‘Ready?’

‘Yes.’ Gerrard ran his eyes along the control room. ‘As we agreed. Surface attack with six tubes. Gun action as a last resort.’ He nodded firmly. ‘God, what a way to earn a living!’

Feet clattered below the conning-tower and he saw Warwick and his gun’s crew, some of them grinning sheepishly as they adjusted their German caps and slipped into the bright orange lifejackets which were always worn by U-boat deck parties. He must miss nothing. Not even the smallest detail. Warwick looked younger than ever, if that were possible, and so much might depend on his nerve and intelligence.

Marshall said calmly, ‘Prepare your gun as soon as we surface. After that keep your people hanging around. Casual, but close enough to move like quicksilver.’ He raised his voice. ‘That applies to the machine-gunners, too. Any surfaced U-boat would have its defences ready, but not obviously so.’

They were all staring at him, suddenly moulded together, the strain showing on each unshaven face.

He said, ‘Periscope depth again.’

He waited as the deck tilted very slightly, the compressed air pulsing into the ballast tanks. He wondered what Browning would have made of all this.
Buster
.

‘Fourteen metres, sir.’

He licked his lips. Throughout his command every man would be waiting to act. The bearings to be set on each torpedo. Everything. Thank God the Germans had perfected the fan method of firing. A British boat had to be aimed at her target or swung at the moment of releasing her torpedoes. Every U-boat was fitted with a device which allowed each shot to be fired individually on varying bearings while the boat’s course remained constant. It was to be hoped that all Buck’s training and drills would use this to good effect.

‘Up periscope.’

He waited, counting seconds. He let his breath exhale very slowly. There she was.

He heard Buck intone, ‘Range four thousand yards, sir.’

Marshall ignored him, watching the other U-boat’s conning-tower as it swam and lifted in the drifting haze as if detached from any hull or foundation. Smaller than this one. Dirty grey in the filtered sunlight. With full power on the lens he could see the rust and slime on the plates, a length of broken guardrail as evidence of her earlier encounters.

‘Down periscope.’ He strode to the ladder. ‘Open the lower hatch.’ He started up the smooth rungs, the gun’s crew crowding up behind him, their breathing very loud in the narrow tower.

He reached for the locking wheel, feeling the moisture
running
down his wrists like rain. Someone had hold of his feet. Just in case. It was not unknown for a captain to be plucked out of the hatch before the build-up of pressure adjusted itself. He saw Warwick’s hand on the ladder by his hip. Small and pale. Like a woman’s. He took a deep breath.

‘
Surface!
’ It had started.

Seconds later, he heard Gerrard’s voice far below, and with all his strength he swung the locking wheel, feeling the ice-cold water dash into his eyes and mouth as he heaved open the hatch and dragged himself on to the bridge. The gratings were only just free of water, and some still gurgled and sluiced through the scuppers as with her hydroplanes at full elevation the boat lurched into the sunlight. Marshall ran to the forepart of the bridge, seeing the foam seething away from the shining ballast tanks, laying bare the gun and casing, the dripping jumping-wire beyond which he saw the other U-boat almost broadside on to their approach.

He trained his glasses on the haze-shrouded conning-tower, saw the flash of sunlight below the periscope standards as someone levelled his binoculars on their sudden appearance. He could imagine in those flashing seconds what the Germans were thinking. Sudden panic at their rapid surfacing, fear giving way to relief at the realisation it was no enemy but one of their own.

A lookout snapped open the voicepipes and he heard Gerrard call, ‘We have the first target in sight, sir. She appears to be slewing round.’

Marshall kept his glasses to his eyes. He should have realised. Should have checked. The damaged U-boat had not stopped merely because she was awaiting help. Her last diesel must have packed up. She was rolling
heavily
in the swell, her after casing awash where some seamen gathered below the conning-tower. He heard Warwick calling to his men, the click of metal behind him as the machine-gunners mounted their weapons on either side of the bridge. Further aft on the bandstand feet slithered on slime-covered steel as other men brought the Vierling to readiness.

He moved the glasses very slowly from bow to bow. Nothing. The supply boat might be visible to the damaged one, but as far as he was concerned she was invisible.

He snapped, ‘Tell the Chief to switch to main engines. Begin charging and ventilate the boat.’

Frenzel must have been waiting, for as the diesels coughed into life he felt the air being sucked down the open hatch like a strong wind.

‘Slow ahead together.’

They were rapidly closing with the other boat. They must hold back until the
milch-cow
showed herself. The diesels would help make conversation difficult. It might also ease any remaining suspicion of their arrival.

A light stabbed across the milky water and Petty Officer Blythe, the yeoman of signals, acknowledged it briefly with his hand lamp. At his side one of the telegraphists translated breathlessly, ‘He’s asking your number, sir.’

‘Reply, Yeoman. One Nine Two.’

God, how quickly they were closing with the other boat. Even the haze was drifting clear, lifting and curling in a soft breeze. He could see the scars on the rounded hull, the uneven casing to mark the nearness of an exploding depth-charge.

He added, ‘Make the coded challenge.’

He gripped the screen until the pain steadied him. Down below his feet Gerrard would be peering through the small
attack
periscope, watching for some sign that things had gone wrong, ready to dive in an instant.

This was the moment. The wrong code, a false acknowledgement, and.…

Blythe murmured, ‘Reply, sir. U-One Five Four.’ He ruffled his small book. ‘Fair enough so far. Not one of this boat’s mob from Lorient.’

The light was flashing again. Slowly and uncertainly as the other boat staggered and rolled drunkenly beneath the German signalman’s feet.

‘Requests that we take her in tow, sir. Has too much drift to——’

He broke off as a lookout said sharply. ‘There she is! Fine on the port bow!’

Almost simultaneously Marshall heard the voicepipe intone ‘Target in sight, sir. Bearing Red one five. Range five thousand yards. Closing.’

At first Marshall could see nothing and cursed as he lost valuable time to wipe moisture from his glasses. When he looked again he saw the great supply boat edging out of the haze like some vast, impossible creation from a nightmare. She bore little resemblance to a normal submarine, and her upper hull and casing were much like those of a partly completed surface craft.

Blythe hissed, ‘Jesus, she’s a big un!’

Marshall darted a quick glance over the screen. Warwick was leaning on the guardrail waving his cap towards the damaged boat while some of his men pointed and gestured like old comrades. He noticed that Leading Seaman Tewson, the gunlayer, had remained by his seat, one hand resting on the brass wheel, the other gently dabbing spray from his telescopic sight.

Gerrard’s voice again. ‘All tubes ready, sir.’

Marshall replied slowly, ‘You must carry out the attack from the control room. We’re too close for comfort. If those bastards see me using the bridge sights——’ He did not finish it.

He heard Gerrard shouting his orders, fought the desire to run below and resume control. The ranges and bearings were being fed into the
fruit-machine
, as it was casually called, the results passed forward to the torpedo compartment.

‘Bow doors open, sir.’

‘What shall I reply, sir?’

Marshall glanced at the yeoman. He had almost forgotten the German’s request for aid. But if he sheered off now the supply boat would know immediately what was happening.

‘Very well. Make to them that we are going to cross their port bow. Stand by on the casing with heaving lines.’ He ignored the slow stammer of the morse lamp and shouted to Warwick below the tower, ‘It’s all yours, Sub! Make it look as if we’re trying!’ He saw Warwick wave and the Casing King dragging a spare wire and bending it to a heaving line.

He forced himself to concentrate. To ignore the nearness of the swaying boat, the waving arms and faint shouts from the other crew.

‘Range now four thousand five hundred yards, sir.’ Gerrard sounded very cool. ‘Tubes one to four ready.’

Marshall bit his lip. The damaged boat was barely two cables clear now. It would have to be soon. At any moment the Germans might notice something, or call him up by name. He swore silently and deliberately and turned his back on the enemy. Why
should
they? The challenge and acknowledgement were perfect. The
Germans
had their own troubles, and probably looked upon them as an additional aid in their predicament.

He saw the machine-guns swaying on their mounts, their long belts of ammunition trailing down through the open hatch like twin snakes.

Gerrard called, ‘We can’t hit the damaged boat, sir. The explosion would finish us, too.’

‘Yes. Thanks, Bob, I had noticed.’ He beckoned to a lookout. ‘Pass the word to the gun crews. Rapid fire on the damaged boat when I give the word.’ He added harshly, ‘
Walk
, man! You’re supposed to be among friends!’

The yeoman grimaced. ‘Some bloody friends, sir!’

The other lookout said, ‘The Jerry’s got a megaphone, sir! He’s gettin’ ready to chat when we gets a bit closer!’

Marshall nodded, his eyes again towards the
milch-cow
. She was moving very slowly, like some great slab of grey pier, her upper deck alive with tiny figures, the sunlight on the brass nozzle of her fuel pipe.

He saw the lookout reach Warwick beside the gun, watched his message make the youth step back as if he had been struck.

A voice echoed tinnily across the heaving water, almost drowned by the mutter of diesels, the hiss of spray against the hull.

Very slowly he removed his cap and waved it towards the other boat. It seemed to do the trick. The other captain spread his arms and pretended to hurl the megaphone overboard in disgust.