Night Sky (68 page)

Fischer thought again: Incredible. What a hell of a job!

The search area lay between thirty and forty miles south-south-east of the southernmost point of the English mainland – the headland known as the Lizard.

Fischer drew a line between the last estimated position of the – he almost called it ‘target’ then corrected himself – of the
prey
, and the given destination, the port of Fal-mouth, which lay to the north-east of the Lizard. Where the line intersected the search area he drew a cross.

He turned to the navigating officer, hovering at his shoulder, and said, ‘A course, please, to
there
.’

The navigator bent over the chart. Fischer said to his first officer, ‘A signal please to U-64 and U-402. Tell them we have new orders and are leaving them directly.’

He returned to the chart. ‘How far to the search point?’

‘One hundred and ten miles exactly.’

Fischer calculated how long it would take to do the distance. On the surface, flat out at seventeen knots, seven hours. He looked at his watch: 0130. Dawn was at 0700 roughly. Not enough time. At dawn he’d have to submerge and he’d still be sixteen odd miles short of the search point. Still, he’d be in the right area and it wouldn’t take long to complete the distance, even at the paltry seven knots they did under the surface. So, on target at about 0930.

Not bad. If this fishing craft was really doing four knots then they should be there well ahead of it. Even if it was doing six knots, they’d still be all right.

‘Drop clear astern of U-64 and then turn to starboard on the course—?’

‘008 degrees, Herr Kaleu, until abeam of Ushant.’

‘Course 008.’ The order was repeated by the first officer and the coxswain.

Fischer looked round for the Chief. He was standing in the after section of the control room. ‘Chief, I’m going to need everything. Seventeen knots if you can manage it.’

The chief tried to frown, but Fischer could see that he was pleased. He liked a challenge. ‘Right, Herr Kaleu. I’ll see what I can do.’ He disappeared in the direction of the engine room.

‘Tell me when we’re on course.’

After a few minutes the confirmation came. Fischer gave the order for full speed ahead.

The order was repeated through the control room. The whine of the diesels rose to a steady din and Fischer felt the vibration run through the boat. He ordered extra vigilance from the lookouts, then, with nothing further to be done, returned to the chart table to stare at the wide expanse of white paper that marked the English Channel.

It was a long time since he’d taken a U-boat into the Channel – it was a long time since anyone had. The British controlled it too effectively. He wondered what he’d find there – the lot probably: air patrols, motor torpedo boats, minesweepers …

Too much, far too much. There was only one point in U-319’s favour: the British wouldn’t be expecting anyone to take a U-boat into the waters where submarines had been proved so vulnerable. They wouldn’t believe anyone could be so stupid.

It wasn’t much of an advantage. But it was all he had.

From the outside the building looks solid and impenetrable – but not enormous. Certainly not large enough to house the operational headquarters of the British Admiralty. That is because most of the building is underground, a warren of subterranean rooms protected from bombing by concrete walls and roofs several feet thick. Not surprisingly, the building is called the Citadel. It lies in the heart of London, next to the main Admiralty buildings, to which it is connected by underground passages. Deep within it are two largish adjoining chambers which resemble billiard rooms. Both contain tables about nine feet square on which are enormous charts overhung by brilliant lights which shine day and night. In the first room is the Main Plot where Allied surface movements – both Allied and enemy – are plotted, as well as relevant air activity. Next door is the Submarine Tracking Room. Its sole purpose is to track enemy submarine movements in the Atlantic.

And, despite German beliefs to the contrary, it does it remarkably well.

On this occasion the night watchkeeper was busy. Although the main interpretation of the data was carried out by the day staff, a lot of information came in during the night and it was his job to decide if there was anything requiring immediate attention, and to generally sort things out ready for analysis in the morning.

He had a staff of three. They were sifting information into groups according to the known facts. They had five sources of information: sightings, aircraft radar fixes, radio direction finding, Special Intelligence, and tracking using a combination of all available information. Radio direction finding was very efficient as long as the U-boat transmitted for long enough. Then the various stations around the country could take cross-bearings on the signal and obtain a fix.

But it was the euphemistically named Special Intelligence which really nailed the U-boats. Also known as Ultra, the information came from Bletchley Park, the Government Code and Cipher School. No-one outside Bletchley Park really knew how the boffins had cracked the German codes, but cracked them they had, though it usually took them a day – sometimes more – to decipher the signals. Once, some months before, the Germans had changed their codes and there had been a hiatus while the ciphers were broken, but then, after a while, the information had come filtering through again.

Sometimes the deciphered signals arrived in a matter of hours. Then the ex-lawyer who headed the department acted quickly, passing information to the naval and air commands and diverting convoys from the path of the waiting wolf packs – when the politicians allowed. Sometimes they did
not
allow, fearful that the Germans would awake to the fact that their codes had been broken.

More often than not it was twenty-four hours before information came through, a time when the Head of Department had to take decisions and make calculated guesses as to what the U-boats might be doing. When the information finally appeared it was amazing how often the Head’s hunches proved correct. He was an astonishing man.

For the third time in an hour the watchkeeper leafed through the decoded Ultra signals that had come in at 0200. Nothing out of the ordinary. Routine signals from headquarters. Brief acknowledgements from the U-boats. He had checked the U-boats’ call-signs against those known to be at sea. They all tallied.

A teleprincess – one of the girls from the telex and communications room – came in and put a telex in front of him. It was from Bletchley Park: a decoded message sent to U-boat headquarters by an escort vessel. At 2300 the escort had reported dropping three U-boats at T3, the buoy which marked the end of the swept channel leading out of Brest. The U-boats concerned were U-64, U-402 and U-319.

The watchkeeper got up and, taking three tokens, marked them with the U-boats’ numbers. He calculated the approximate distance the U-boats would have travelled since 2300 and placed the tokens on the plot, some fifty miles west of Brest.

U-319. He knew that number. Even before he looked it up on the list he remembered that it was Fischer’s boat. Yes, there she was: U-319, Commander: Karl Fischer, Flotilla: Ninth, Base: Brest.

Fischer was well known. A very successful skipper, a German hero. He’d been around a long time.

The watchkeeper only wished he knew where the blighter was heading for. Sometimes one didn’t find out until too late. Sometimes one never found out at all.

He returned to his desk. Almost immediately the telephone rang. It was Bletchley Park. He listened carefully, asked a couple of questions, and replaced the receiver. He stood up and stared thoughtfully at the plot.

U-boat headquarters had sent an unusually long message on the Atlantic U-boat frequency. The message had only just been intercepted and wouldn’t be decoded for some hours yet, but it had had an urgent priority prefix. That was sufficiently unusual for Bletchley to call him.

Something was up then. The watchkeeper wondered what it could be. Perhaps German Intelligence had discovered the position of a convoy, perhaps a new strategy was being implemented …

He stared at the plot as if it could tell him the answer. But there was only one thing that could do that – the decode.

And that, as always, took time.

NxW. N
ORTH BY
W
EST
… Where on earth was it? It had
disappeared
again.

Julie peered at the dimly-lit compass card and tried to read the letters. The boat lurched and she put up a hand to brace herself against the post that held the compass.

Come on!
Which way? Which way?

Think. It was showing W – West. North was to the right. Therefore she wanted the card to swing – which way? She almost shouted with frustration: it was impossible to work out.

Frantically, she pulled the tiller towards her and watched the card.

It hesitated then swung slowly towards North.

She breathed a sigh of relief, then made herself concentrate again. NxW. North by West.

NxW for one hour. Don’t forget. NxW – North by West
.

The problem was the compass. It wouldn’t stay still. It kept swaying from side to side. And it moved in the opposite direction to the one you expected. The tiller did too!

NxW for one hour then you’ll be safe
.

Then you’ll be safe
… So there must be dangers either side, rocks, shoals, islands … She remembered on placid summer days seeing the rocks in the estuary and, further out, black towers marking hidden plateaus.

She gulped and gritted her teeth and concentrated again on the swinging card. However hard she tried it was absolutely impossible to keep it straight on NxW. The best she could do was to keep NxW in the centre of the swing. Even then, if she took her eyes away for a moment, it seemed to dive away.

She jerked the tiller towards her and realised the card was swinging the wrong way. ‘Dear God!’ She shoved the tiller away and the ‘N’ shot round towards the front of the compass. Too far! She yanked at the tiller again until NxW hovered for a moment on the marker before swinging inexorably away. She shouted out loud, ‘Damn you!’

She closed her eyes tightly for a moment and made an effort to clear her mind.

She opened her eyes, breathed deeply and concentrated again. At last the compass evened out somewhere around NxW. She remembered something Richard had said, about boats having a feel to them, a balance … There was none that she could sense, none at all!

A sound floated back, a whimper … She peered towards the middle of the boat. ‘Peter? Peter! Are you all right, darling?’

‘Mummy!’ The voice was tearful. ‘Mummy, I’m awfully cold!’

‘Yes, darling, I know. But—’ Could she leave the tiller and get to him? No – it was too risky, even for a moment. She shouted, ‘Darling, try to get under the deck at the front. And – look in your bag—’

‘What?’ His voice was faint, plaintive.

The course had veered again; Julie jerked at the tiller. ‘Your bag, darling. Look inside it. There’s another sweater somewhere!’

‘What?’

Julie gripped the tiller and tried not to scream. She shouted angrily, ‘Just do as I say and don’t argue!’

There was a silence, then, ‘I’ve got it.’

Julie calmed herself down. She said steadily, ‘Take off your jacket and put on the sweater, then crawl up – No! Put the jacket back on
first, then
crawl up to the front. It’ll be warmer there. Tell me when you get there.’

‘All right.’

For an instant Julie wondered what had happened to the old man: he was very quiet. She thought of calling to him, then decided against it. Later. She had too much to think about now.

The boat moved suddenly and Julie reached for the post again, her heart lurching with fear. The waves – they were a little larger, she was sure of it. She shivered violently and looked quickly down at the compass. The boat was miles off course. She jerked at the tiller and thought: This is hopeless,
hopeless
! I can’t
possibly
manage this on my own! God, why did Michel think I could!

If only there was someone else!

Richard … Best of all,
Richard
– why couldn’t
he
be here? He would know exactly what to do. He must have been through lots of experiences like this. The thought encouraged her a little. She tried to remember other things he had told her about sailing, things that might help … But she could remember nothing very useful: he’d talked about compasses and courses – but he’d never explained how you actually held a course, far less how you managed the sails …

Peter’s small voice floated back on the wind. ‘Mummy, I’m here!’ In the front, presumably.

Julie shouted, ‘Try to go to sleep now, darling.’

‘All right.’

She looked down at the compass. Good Lord: it actually read NxW. She giggled a little hysterically.

The night was so dark it was impossible to see anything clearly. The sky was slightly less dark than the sea – but that was all. Julie stared ahead, trying to make out shapes – something, anything. But there was no distance, no perspective and after a while the blackness seemed to rear up in front of her like a wall.