The Passenger (13 page)

15.03
Plume of smoke at bearing 100° true. Within minutes further plumes of smoke appear over the horizon. A total of six.

15.50
Some distance away, an aircraft in sight bearing 130°.

16.30
The convoy's air escort has been flying over with some regularity. On one occasion two Martlet fighters were
observed together. There is a British carrier escorting this convoy; identity unknown.

23.21
Minimal wind and sea, sporadic clouds, night rather dark. Advance to attack. Battle stations. Our intention to fire four bow torpedoes, and, after turning, to fire a stern torpedo; however, the bow caps for tubes I and II do not open.

23.31
We fire with tubes III and IV at two steamers, and then, after turning, we fire a third torpedo from tube V at another steamer separated from its column. No detonations heard. We withdraw to reload torpedoes and reposition on the opposite side of the convoy. The escorts are firing star shells but these are so poorly directed there is no danger of being detected.

Explosions. Tanker ablaze.

00.10
Run in for second attack. Just before we are about to reach our firing position a U-boat appears between us and the convoy. We turn away because the field of fire is obstructed. As we retreat we see a burning tanker. In front of it is a damaged steamer listing badly. Destroyers continue to launch star shells indiscriminately and the horizon is well lit. We see the convoy sailing past the burning tanker. 23 vessels.

03.32
We run in to attack once again.

03.40
Two torpedoes fired from tubes II and IV. After 3 minutes and 20 seconds we see a torpedo detonation and a great flash. A burst of star shells follows. This time they are directed with greater accuracy but our boat is still unobserved.

03.50
I withdraw from the convoy. As we head off we hear the sound of depth charges.

04.15
No more torpedoes. Report to B.d.U. via W/T, requesting permission to return to port.

Siegfried Lorenz

A
ll of the bunks and hammocks in the bow compartment were occupied by sleeping sailors whose constant growling, huffing, and wheezing confirmed the fundamental brutishness of the human condition. The effect suggested a cave of hibernating bears. In the last of the starboard bunks, Richter was raised up slightly on some pillows, looking at Lorenz with the aid of his single, serviceable eye. A yellow-brown stain had seeped through the mold-speckled dressing that had been wrapped diagonally around his head. The wound underneath, Lorenz supposed, was probably infected and would take a long time to heal. Richter might not survive, especially if the infection was spreading through his body or blood was clotting in his brain. The air was noisome, sulphurous, like rotten eggs, and what remained of the suspended foodstuffs had turned black. Incessant dripping made everything permanently damp.

Lorenz shifted his gaze from Richter to Graf. ‘The caps are working now?'

‘Yes,' Graf replied, ‘one and two, fully operational.'

‘This is getting ridiculous.'

‘I really have no idea—'

‘—what went wrong,' Lorenz cut in, making a dismissive gesture.

‘I'm sorry, Herr Kaleun.' Graf's apology received no acknowledgement.

The torpedo doors were arranged squarely like the four dots on a die. Surrounding them was a chaotic arrangement of large and small conduits, wheels, and metal boxes.

‘So,' said Lorenz, turning to speak to Kruger and Dressel, the two torpedo men. ‘What happened to our first batch of torpedoes?'

‘They were properly maintained, Herr Kaleun' said Kruger. His unsightly rashes were particularly vivid and his nose was misshapen by outcrops of boils.

‘What about the calculator connection?' Lorenz asked.

‘No problems there, sir,' Dressel answered. Like his colleague, his skin had been disfigured by exposure to toxic chemicals.

‘They missed altogether—or didn't explode?' Lorenz raised his eyebrows, inviting the two torpedo men to offer an opinion.

Kruger cleared his throat and said, ‘I'd checked the gyros, and—with respect, sir—as you know—with these torpedoes premature detonation is the more common problem.'

The boat rolled and the hoist chains rattled. Dressel raised his finger to indicate that he wished to speak. ‘They say there's a tendency for the G7e Type II to fail if you go too far north. Once you've crossed the sixty-second parallel you can expect trouble, something to do with the earth's magnetic field.'

‘That's all very interesting, Dressel, but we weren't above the sixty-second parallel.'

Dressel pulled off his hat and toyed with the badges that he had attached to the material. One of them was the boat's emblem, a crudely cut scorpion that he had fashioned himself from a tin can. ‘It's not clear yet, sir. The science . . .'

Lorenz saw that Dressel was uncomfortable and adopted a less challenging tone of voice. ‘True.'

‘The firing pins could have been damaged,' said Kruger.

‘Three of them?'

Graf nodded. ‘Abnormally high interior pressure—that could have damaged the pins.'

‘And the tubes haven't been watertight since we got hammered that last time,' said Kruger.

‘Disturbed depth-regulation mechanisms?' Dressel addressed Kruger.

‘If so,' Kruger continued, ‘the torpedoes could have run so far under the targets the pistols wouldn't have fired.'

One of the sleeping sailors made a fearful cry, called out a name, and sank back into his nightmare.

‘We've been at sea for thirty-eight days,' said Dressel. ‘Storing torpedoes for too long can cause difficulties, even if they are well-maintained.'

‘Remember what happened to U-39?' Kruger shuddered. ‘The torpedo pretty much exploded as soon it left the tube. That was because they'd stored their torpedoes for too long.'

‘But ours didn't explode at all,' said Lorenz. He looked at their blank faces and paraphrased Dressel. ‘Things aren't clear yet? An inexact science?'

Kruger shrugged.

‘Kaleun,' Richter raised a feeble arm. ‘Kaleun? It was him.'

‘Oh, for God's sakes, Richter,' said Kruger. ‘Just take it easy. Go to sleep.'

‘I saw him,' Richter continued. ‘The British officer.'

Kruger spoke to Lorenz in a whisper. ‘He's driving me mad with all this talk, Kaleun.'

Richter strained to sit up. ‘He tried to strangle me. While I was asleep . . .'

‘Get Ziegler,' said Lorenz.

‘I think the poor sod has already had too much morphine,' said Graf.

‘Something bad will happen,' Richter cried.

‘It already has, Richter,' said Lorenz. ‘We're at war.' His attempt at levity was ineffective. Graf, Kruger, and Dressel fidgeted uneasily and looked away. Lorenz marched off, annoyed. Richter's words were still resonating in his mind.
He tried to strangle
me. While I was asleep
. . . As Lorenz weaved his way around the clutter between the bunks, he accidentally kicked a book which skidded over the linoleum. When he picked it up, he discovered that his boot had made contact with the Bible. Usually, his men read collections of obscene jokes or adventure stories. The fact that one or more of them was seeking solace in scripture did not bode well. Richter's utterances were fraying nerves, not least of all his own.

O
NCE AGAIN, THE WEATHER WORSENED
and waves crashed against the conning tower. The hull of U-330 resounded like a metal drum being repeatedly struck with a mallet. There were rasps, scrapes, and screeches, and occasionally the entire structure would shake so violently that the agitation threatened to rearrange internal organs and loosen joints. The perpetual, dizzying motion was intolerable. When the diesel intake vents were submerged the engines drew air from inside the boat. Wild pressure variations caused ears to ache. Water poured through vents, and the pumps worked ceaselessly. No one could eat. The mere thought of food caused bile to rise in the throat. Crewmen became rigid and jerked backward through the air as the boat heeled. Some sank to their knees, mimicking the revolving descent of marionettes with relaxed strings, while others, overwhelmed by nausea, clung to pipes and valve wheels. Casualties mounted: twisted ankles, bloody faces, knocked-out teeth—a suspected fractured rib, a sprained wrist, grazes, and bruises. Vomit collected in the bilges and sailors retired to their bunks, clutching their stomachs and mumbling curses.

Lorenz ordered as many dives as possible. Sixty meters below the roiling surface, U-330 was able to follow a largely untroubled course, heading south toward Brest, both electric motors running slow, its trim scarcely disturbed by deep currents; however,
this relative calm did not allow for a return to normality, there were none of the usual card games and salacious stories, no jazz records on the turntable. The crew were enfeebled by starvation and exhausted by sickness. Only Richter broke the silence with sudden, brief outbursts, during which he voiced oblique warnings about the British devil.

The boat could not remain submerged indefinitely; only one or two hours when traveling at maximum speed. Then it was necessary to surface in order to run the diesels and recharge the batteries.

On the eighth day of the storm, within seconds of arriving on the bridge, Falk was thrown against the bulwark and knocked unconscious. Lorenz took his place, joining Hoffmann, Berger, and Arnold for the returning first watch. It was difficult to negotiate the ladder dressed in oilskins, and even harder getting Falk below; whenever the hatch was opened water cascaded into the tower. Lorenz had to hang on tightly to prevent himself from being dislodged. He struggled out and immediately secured his safety belt to the aiming-device pedestal with a snap hook. The world had become a place of extravagant savagery. Black clouds were boiling over the horizon, mounting toward the zenith, while sheer, perpendicular faces of grey-green water collided and shattered, saturating the air with icy spume. The boat yawed and lurched forward.

Water flooded onto the bridge through the rear railings and its sucking retreat dragged Lorenz until he fell. He hauled himself upright and when he peered over the bulwark a rising geyser delivered a powerful uppercut that snapped his head back. The foul-weather gear was almost useless in these extreme conditions. Freezing water dripped down his back and legs and filled his boots, the oilskin collar chafed his neck, and the salt water made the sensitive, broken skin burn. His gloves were heavy and soaked through.

U-330 tilted and glided around the outer rim of a whirlpool. It reminded Lorenz of Charybdis, the legendary scourge of ancient
Greek maritime heroes. For a few heart-stopping seconds he thought that the boat was going to slip into the vortex and spiral toward its deep center of attraction. The diesels throbbed, the screws turned, and the boat fought free of the swirling precipice. U-330 chugged up a steep swell, teetered at the summit and then slid down the other side. The entire forward section of the upper casing was invisible and covered in hissing foam. Even the 8.8 cm gun was completely submerged.

The swell lifted them again to a point of vantage that revealed an astonishing vista of jagged peaks and valleys; the entire ocean appeared to be escaping from the earth's gravitational field. They were surrounded by leaping, thrusting upheavals.

‘Chaos,' Lorenz whispered to himself. He looked back at his companions and registered their terror.

The boat began to descend at a steep angle.

‘Hold fast,' Lorenz hollered. The next wave reared up in front of them, a monstrous wave, the crest of which curved over their heads. ‘Hold fast, we're going under.'

The bow cut through the water and the sound of the lashing wind died. Suddenly, there was only green and cold and gurgling and the jarring shock of total immersion. Lorenz felt his boots rising off the platform, the restraining band of the safety belt biting into his waist. How many meters were they under the surface? Ten? Twenty? And still going down? He couldn't breathe and the acute cold became pain. Thirty meters? Slowly, the boat leveled and began to ascend. The pain from the belt was excruciating. He was reminded of officer training, when he was made to lift a heavy, electrified iron bar and ordered not to drop it. A shadowy curtain dropped and he supposed that he was about to lose consciousness. His memories deserted him, and he was reduced to a state of rudimentary awareness—a sensory trace, raw nerve endings. And then the tower was out of the water and he was lying on the bridge coughing and aching and gasping beneath a blazing arc of lightning. He pulled himself up again and turned to face
his companions. Berger was clinging to the periscope housing and the control-room mate was on all fours spluttering over the hatch. Hoffmann wasn't there.

‘Hoffmann?' he screamed, ‘Hoffmann?' And then: ‘Man overboard!' But even as he screamed these words he knew that Hoffmann was lost. The boat was pitched from one wave to the next and sheets of sleet swept over the bow. Shaking, Lorenz looked out across the retributive water and shook his head in despair. Even if Hoffmann was close, shouting for help and waving his arms, they wouldn't be able to see him. Berger and the control-room mate were standing up, wiping their eyes, trying to stay on their feet. The seething water rose to their chests and pulled them all toward the stern. Lorenz found Hoffman's dangling snap hook and held it in his hand, like a clairvoyant might: trying to establish contact with a departed spirit by caressing a once-treasured trinket.