Killing Ground (31 page)

Treherne smiled. “Of
course.”

“Old Jimmy-th'-One used to say, no matter 'ow bad things get, they can't put you in th' family way in this 'ere mob, so that was a bit of a comfort!” He was still chuckling as Treherne walked away.

The momentary despair had released its hold. Treherne could even smile now. With men like the Buffer, how could they fail?

T
HE
U-Boat was making good at barely three knots as it pushed through the powerful undulating swell of mid-ocean. Steam rose from her casing-deck and conning-tower as the sun, which was directly overhead, gave an illusion of warmth.

All lookouts were in position, and the officer-of-the-watch heard the search periscope move its standard; more eyes were busy from beneath his feet.

It was safe enough out here, but you never took unnecessary risks anywhere. Occasionally the lieutenant leaned over the side of the conning-tower to see how one of the seamen was getting on with his quick-dry paint and stencil as he adorned the grey steel with another kill, an American ship which must have been loaded with heavy metal. It had broken its back and gone down after just one torpedo amidships. An American escort had carried out several attacks, but the Yanks lacked the experience of the Tommies, and they had been able to run deep and slip away undamaged. Five other crewmen were lounging on the deck, their bodies naked to the sun, a luxury for their pallid skins and shadowed eyes. The captain allowed five at a time, to smoke, to stare at the sea instead of the curved interior of their boat when they waited to attack or endure a depth-charge bombardment.

One of the men below the conning-tower was playing a sentimental tune on his harmonica while the others listened in silence, or gazed at the vastness of the Atlantic, thinking of home, of that other impossible world.

The lieutenant sighed and straightened his back as the captain climbed swiftly to the bridge. The lieutenant admired and respected his captain; they all did. They depended on his skill and cunning for their very lives. But even in the confines of the boat it seemed impossible to know him,
really
know him. It was
like having someone constantly present and yet separated by a thick plate of glass. And he was quite tireless. Each attack was fought as if it was the first one, nothing left to chance, no cutting corners because of all the other encounters, the strain and the anxiety.

Kleiber knew what the other officer was thinking but it did not bother him.

He was tired but would never show it, and his skin felt clammy with sweat beneath his sea-going clothing.

At least today, if things worked properly, some of their discomfort would be eased. One of the big supply submarines was due to rendezvous, part of the chain of
milchküh
boats as they were called, which met the U-Boats at special points, like one giant grid; if you missed one, there was another chance later on. The plan had trebled the sea-time of almost every ocean-going submarine. No longer did they have to abandon a patrol in order to return to base or lose time when making for their allotted area. It meant more strain on every crew, but it kept the boats at sea to attack and destroy as Donitz had planned.

This
milchküh
was new, and their boat was the first on its list. They might get a better choice from this huge travelling victualler's yard and machine shop rolled into one. Fuel, fresh water, food supplies, letters from home, newspapers; even the luxury of proper soap instead of the stuff which felt like slate after a few frugal washes.

Ammunition too, and perhaps they might replace the torpedo which had disgraced itself after one of their attacks on a small convoy. It had started to lose compressed air so that bubbles had surged from a bow-cap, a real gift to any keen-eyed observer in a reconnaissance bomber.

Kleiber would have to fill in a report when he eventually returned to their French lair. But nobody would dare to reprimand him now. There had been too many inexplicable losses amongst the U-Boat fleet of late. Good experienced commanders for the most part, not ones just out of tactical school.

There was also a leak in the forward periscope gland, which they might or might not be able to fix. But they could manage if it got no worse.

He ticked off the points in his mind like a written list.

Engines and motors, good. Results poor, but they had been homed on to a convoy which had been heavily defended for its small size, and they had managed to obtain just one hit.

He glanced at his watch.
Soon now.
He nodded to the lieutenant who spoke rapidly into the voicepipe. There was no risk of hostile aircraft out here, and the weather was fair for the Atlantic. They would have to open the big forehatch to take on stores, something which no commander wanted to do.

Kleiber had done it often enough to know the risks. He would wait until the actual rendezvous. The lieutenant had merely warned the deck party to be ready.

He tried not to let his mind dwell on the news from North Africa. It had to be faced. It was a reverse, but it would benefit the land-based forces in Europe and on the Russian front. Perhaps there would be a letter from his parents about Willi. The thaw would have come to Russia; the icy holes where the Army had fought and held the line would become slush and mud again. Poor Willi; his ideals had cost him dear. Kleiber glanced over the screen at the men on deck. Willi would be better off here, with him. He studied each man carefully. They looked undernourished, starved of fresh air and clean clothing. Worn, bearded faces, and yet there were few older than the mid-twenties down in the boat itself.

What would the Tommies and their allies do next? Attack through Greece, even after their disastrous lesson at Crete? France perhaps? He dismissed it instantly. He had seen some of the impregnable defences of the Führer's Western Wall for himself. Italy then?

His thoughts returned to Willi. Suppose the high command were already negotiating peace with the allies, to join together and smash into Russia, finish Ivan once and for all.

The lieutenant saw his mouth lift in a small smile and imagined
Kleiber was thinking of home; a girl maybe.

Kleiber was picturing the high command on one side and Winston Churchill on the other. He could see no unity there.

A man shouted and he heard the offending periscope squeak in its standard. In the far distance there was a huge disturbance as slowly at first, and then more violently, the big supply-boat heaved itself to the surface, small figures spilling over the conning-tower like a team of athletes. One of Kleiber's men flashed off the recognition signal in response to the usual challenge. The supply-boat was already turning to make a lee for them to move closer alongside.

The supply-boat had surfaced too soon, and too far, he thought, and would waste valuable time with this manoeuvre. Which was why they had not detected its approach. A new
milchküh;
so maybe an inexperienced commander?

The man with the pot of paint grasped a safety rail and leaned back to study his work. There were over sixty such trophies painted there. Each one a blow for the Fatherland. He grinned at the solemnity of his thought and turned to shade his eyes to look at the other submarine. They might even have some special sausage, like that he had known as a boy in Minden.

He could not see the supply-boat because of the conning-tower. But he saw the captain's white cap, heard him speaking to the control room; one of the lookouts was waving, looking the wrong way.

The man turned and stared out to sea. The reflection was so hard it seemed to drain the sky of colour, but it deepened the grey-blue of the ocean. He blinked. It was impossible. He had been staring too long. Like pieces of glass against the horizon, a ship's bridge caught the sunlight. No; there was more than one, moving across the water faster than any ship. He heard himself cry out, the sudden scuffle on the bridge, and then the scream of a klaxon.

The seaman made to climb up the ladder but he had forgotten the lifeline, always insisted upon when working near the
saddle-tanks. From the other side he heard men gasping as they ran frantically for the ladder, and then for the first time, the far-off drone of aircraft engines.
It was impossible.
He struggled, but the line had caught fast. There was a brief shadow and he looked up to see the captain watching him. A glance, nothing more, but the man knew what was happening. He heard the thud of the hatch, the sudden roar of vents as the sea thundered into the tanks to force the U-Boat down into a crash dive. The man was still screaming as the first depth-charges exploded around the surfaced supply-boat, which with the forward hatch wide open was already doomed.

Then his scream was gone, and the little painted trophies were the last things he ever saw.

Kleiber waited for twenty minutes and then went up to periscope depth. He had heard the depth-charges, dropped from the low-flying biplanes which could only have come from a carrier. He swung the periscope in a complete circle and heard one last muffled explosion, which must have been caused when the supply-boat hit the bottom.

There was nothing, not even one of the strange-looking aircraft which he knew to be Swordfish. He could not even see any oil. It was as if nothing had happened.

He loosened his grasp on the handles; they felt wet, but it had nothing to do with a leaking gland this time.

Something scraped against the hull and he saw a petty officer staring at the curving steel as if he expected to see an intruder. The drowned seaman was still dragging there, his boots scraping against the saddle-tank in the undertow.

He felt he should explain. What was one life when set against so many? At night they would surface and cut the body free.

He leaned on the gently shaking chart table and stared at the wavering calculations.

He did not need to explain anything. He commanded, they did not.

He looked at the palm of his hand where there was sweat,
when before there had been none.

The price of vigilance.
Survival.

“Radar—Bridge. Ship now bears three-three-zero, range ten thousand yards.”

Howard stooped down and peered at the radar-repeater. Like something underwater, he thought, shimmering shapes before the revolving beam passed over the solitary blip.

He asked, “Anything else, Whitelaw?”

“No, sir.” Whitelaw was probably surprised that he should ask. He would have told him had there been something.

“Revolutions for twelve knots, Number One.” He heard Treherne stir himself, the muffled response from the wheel-house. “Steer three-one-five.” It would be dawn soon; there was no point in displaying the ship's complete silhouette against a brightening horizon.

“Steady on three-one-five, sir.” Treherne sounded tense. With no Asdic, a submarine could be right underneath the keel and they would not know. It had been a long two days searching for this ship, and the next large convoy would be passing through this point to pick up additional escorts for the run home. It did not allow for any errors. A large convoy at night was bad anyway, especially as they had heard it had already been attacked and had lost three ships.

Bizley was OOW to help ease the work on the others, and because he was unable to control either his Squid or ordinary depth-charges without the Asdic's eye to guide him.

He said to the bridge at large, “I thought the long-range recce bombers could reach this far out.” Nobody spoke and he added irritably, “Just one bomb would have put paid to that hulk, surely?”

Howard spoke over his shoulder. “There are men on that
hulk—there
were, anyway.”

Treherne exclaimed, “They've suffered enough, I'd have thought?”

Bizley stooped over the gyro. It was to conceal his smile rather than to check the ship's head. It was always easy to bait the first lieutenant into an argument. What the hell did they really care? They had left enough men to die in the sea before; a handful more made little difference.

He saw Treherne and the captain with their heads together, while the navigating officer was hidden inside the canvas hood, busy with his chart with the new midshipman hovering nearby. Signalmen, lookouts, and just below the bridge the Oerlikon gunners moving their slender barrels from side to side, mistrusting every feather of spray, each sudden surge of water.

He thought of the girl he had telephoned before they had left Liverpool. Milvain's sister Sarah had sounded subdued to begin with, but had seemed to brighten up after a few moments, when she had realised who it was. She had told him about Howard's brief visit and had hinted at her mother's coolness towards him. It had been far better than Bizley had dared to hope. He could picture her as he had seen her in the photograph Milvain carried in his wallet. A good family too. It was strange that his CO, Milvain's brother, had not boasted about it. Father a general, their home a fine house in Mayfair. The things which rated very high in Bizley's suburban background. He had suggested they might meet when he was next on leave. To his surprise, she had sounded genuinely delighted. One hint of caution, however, when she had said that she would have to ask her mother.

Bizley had played his trump card. “It's my decoration, you see. I feel it was really
because
of your brother—not what I did. I just wanted you to see it, share it.”

He glanced at the others around him.
I'll bloody well show you.

Leading Seaman Fernie's anger was still a problem, but not as much as he had first thought. He had discovered that Fernie was sweating on getting made-up to petty officer. With promotion almost within his grasp he would be careful not to confront an officer with all the possible consequences of a court of enquiry. Bizley was still shaken by the captain's contemptuous
reprimand—he had never had such a strip torn off him. It was so unfair; Milvain's drowning had been an accident, just as he had described in his report. He might have misunderstood when he had been ordered to assist the exhausted German on board. It was certainly not
his
fault. It was probably the youth's eagerness to please his lieutenant that had been the main cause of his accidental death. He smiled to himself. A kind of hero-worship. Milvain's sister would like to hear about that too, he thought.