The Passenger (24 page)

The photographer sidled up to Graf and said, ‘That was his speech?'

‘Yes,' said Graf. ‘His longest yet. He may have spun it out for your benefit.' Although Pullman maintained his habitual half-smile, he was not able to conceal his disapproval.

Thirty minutes later U-330 floated out of the bunker and followed a tug boat through the obstacles in the military harbor.
Lorenz was on the bridge, calling engine and rudder orders through the communications pipe. The sky was not covered with an even distribution of stars: barrage balloons produced ominous areas of blackness—sharp-edged voids. Hulks materialized out of the gloom like cursed ships, and the air smelled of oil and seaweed.

‘No brass bands,' said Graf. Lorenz nodded. Further expansion was unnecessary. They were clearly leaving in secrecy because of renewed suspicions of an intelligence breach.

Lorenz thought of his family, the quiet courage of his sister and the small, perfect hands of his niece and nephew. He thought of Monika, her upturned face beneath the street lamp—tiny ice crystals landing on her eyelashes; Leo Glockner in his study, and finally Faustine—beautiful, sensuous, elegant Faustine—who he would never see again. Would he see any of them again?

An escort vessel was waiting for U-330 outside the sea wall. It led them through the Goulet de Brest, along the coast, and past the Pointe de Saint-Mathieu. They continued west, and on reaching the 200-meter contour Lorenz cleared the bridge. Just after midnight he gave orders to dive, and the boat slipped beneath the waves. In Lorenz's pocket, a British penny was continuously rotating between his fingers, and each revolution seemed to accumulate dark presentiments of increasing intensity.

PATROL

T
wo days passed, the watch-rotation progressed through its inexorable cycles, and the lookouts stared over an unchanging, empty wilderness of foamy ridges. The monotony of their vigil was broken only once by the appearance of a flotilla of wooden crates. Lorenz, ever curious about the detritus carried between continents by the sea, ordered that one of the containers should be opened. Inside were a number of identical yellow velvet ball gowns. They were so old-fashioned they could have been made by a seamstress in the nineteenth century.

‘Shall we keep one?' asked Falk.

‘Yellow isn't your color,' Lorenz replied. ‘You're far too pale.'

‘I meant for luck, sir,' said Falk, stiffening as the men standing around him began to smirk.

Lorenz shook his head. ‘We don't have room.'

The boat was crammed with provisions. Loaves of bread–filled nets were drawn across the engine room, the crew quarters looked like a butcher's shop, and one of the heads was completely full of coffee, tea, chocolate powder, and fruit juice. Moreover, the deck in the forward compartment had been raised to accommodate the reserve torpedoes, making the already confined space even more cramped than usual. There really wasn't any room for a ball gown. Even so, if there had been even the slightest possibility of stowing it somewhere, Lorenz would have given his consent. The atmosphere on board U-330 had been subdued and uneasy. This was not only because of the photographer's unwelcome presence but also because of Wilhelm's
desertion, which was viewed by many as yet another bad omen. A lucky charm, Lorenz recognized, might help to counteract the general feeling of despondency. ‘I tell you what,' said Lorenz, swiftly reviewing his decision, ‘cut out one those embroidered flowers and pin it up somewhere in the control room.' His compromise was welcomed by sighs of satisfaction.

The following day, Arnold and Engel reported symptoms of venereal disease.

‘So,' said Lorenz to the two shame-faced penitents, ‘I suppose you spent most of your leave upstairs at the Casino Bar?'

‘No, Kaleun,' said Arnold indignantly. ‘I've been seeing a local girl, that's all.'

‘Me too,' said Engel. ‘Her name's Marie. She's very chaste. She goes to church every Sunday.'

‘When are you idiots going to learn?' Lorenz asked rhetorically. ‘Venereal disease is a British secret weapon. The local women carry it especially for the likes of you. I suppose they succumbed to your amorous advances as soon as you told them you were about to leave. Well?' Arnold and Engel looked down at their boots. ‘It's a strategy. Don't you see? A method of interfering with the efficient running of U-boats at sea.'

‘Is that really true?' asked Pullman.

‘Yes,' Lorenz replied.

‘Then we must take the names of these women,' said Pullman, reaching for a notebook, ‘and radio Brest at once.'

‘It's not something we can prove.'

‘Be that as it may . . .'

‘Pullman, it isn't possible to arrest women for carrying venereal diseases. Not yet, anyway.'

‘They could be questioned.'

‘There are more important things we should be worrying about.'

A few days later Lorenz consulted Ziegler concerning his patients.

‘They've both got gonorrhoea—I think. Arnold is responding to the albucid cure but not Engel.'

‘So what are you going to do?' asked Lorenz.

Ziegler shrugged. ‘The old method, I suppose, permanganate of potash in a urethral syringe.'

Pullman turned pale.

‘There's something you should record for posterity,' said Lorenz, addressing the photographer. ‘Take a picture of that and it'll be sure to make the front cover of the
Illustrated Observer
.'

T
HE SUN WAS SETTING WHEN
Lorenz was given the decrypted message. Another vessel of the 1st Flotilla, U-112, was pursuing a convoy just north of U-330's current position. He consulted Müller at the chart table, who, on seeing the coordinates, exclaimed, ‘We can catch them up in a matter of hours.' Immediately Lorenz gave the order to change course.

When darkness fell, the night was moonless and impenetrable. Visibility was so poor Lorenz resorted to sniffing the breeze for traces of oil.

‘Can you smell anything?' asked Falk.

‘No,' Lorenz replied.

The boat raced north at full speed, cutting diagonally across waves of increasing size. Two hours passed.

Lorenz was peering over the bulwark when something on the forward section of the deck drew his attention. A portion of the darkness seemed to become detached, to separate from its surroundings—a deeper black against the general blackness that enveloped the bow. He watched its slow progress, a figure walking beneath the radio antenna, and when it arrived at the 8.8 cm gun it came to a halt. An involuntary sound escaped from between Lorenz's lips: a dipping and rising note that expressed surprise and disbelief.

‘Kaleun?' said Falk.

The edges of the shape blurred and whatever it was seemed to dissipate and become absorbed into the darkness. ‘Nothing,' said Lorenz. ‘Keep your eyes on the horizon.'

One of the lookouts coughed and said hesitantly, ‘Fifty degrees starboard. I'm not sure—but I think . . . I think I can see a steamer.'

Lorenz struggled to remain focused. He dismissed the figure from his mind and when he raised his binoculars he spied a smudge against the faintly phosphorescent sky. ‘Yes,' he responded, ‘I see it.' He gave further course directions and U-330 continued to jounce across the water with both diesels thumping.

As they approached the convoy, officers began to assemble on the bridge: Juhl, Müller, Graf, and Pullman. Falk was looking through the aiming device, reeling off numbers—target speed, range, angle—and in the conning tower, Sauer was entering data into the computer. Some corrections were made, and Falk felt a flush of satisfaction when the large shadow he was observing became aligned in the crosshairs. Indistinct forms, no more than vague penumbra, suggested other craft beyond his principle mark. Two fan shots followed. U-330 turned to evade the nearest escorts, and after a brief interval there was a massive explosion, a great tower of flame rose up from the sea and the men on the bridge felt the shock wave inside their chests. Pullman's camera shutter was clicking. The torpedoes had been spread out in order to optimize the chances of sinking any other steamers in the vicinity, but this ploy had not proven effective. They had either passed harmlessly between hulls or they had, yet again, failed to detonate. Lorenz wondered if the new G7e torpedoes were going to be as unreliable as the old ones. Suddenly the sky was ablaze with star shells and parachute flares. A large silhouette loomed out of the middle distance directly ahead of them.

‘Shit!' Falk cried. ‘Where did that come from?'

Lorenz yelled, ‘Alarm!'

The lookouts and the spectating officers leaped into the tower. Lorenz was the last to leave the bridge and he shouted ‘One hundred meters' as he closed and dogged the hatch. When he stepped off the ladder in the control room the deck was angled, and Graf was standing behind the hydroplane operators studying the manometer dial. ‘Hard port turn.'

Twenty meters, Twenty-five meters, thirty meters
. . .

‘Dead slow—continue to turn.' U-330 doubled back to run parallel on the attacker. Lorenz climbed through the bulkhead and squatted next to Lehmann, who was already listening through his headphones and rotating his wheel. The boat leveled. ‘Well?' Lorenz asked. Lehmann whispered a bearing, gave an estimated range, and added, ‘Heading straight toward us.' Soon, everyone could hear the thrashing of propellers. The escort passed overhead and there were two splashes. The noise of the propellers faded and the ensuing silence was so profound it was possible to hear the malignant ticking of the depth charges, becoming louder and louder as they sank. A powerful blast rocked the boat, and the lights went out for a few seconds. When they came on again Lorenz could see Pullman staring upward, his hands cradling the lens of his camera. He did not look particularly frightened, and his half-smile was still intact. Zealots had many faults, Lorenz reflected, but cowardice wasn't one of them. Addressing Graf he said, ‘Another thirty meters.' The boat nosed down and leveled out again. More depth charges exploded but none of them were as accurate as the first. ‘They don't know where we are,' Lorenz crowed. ‘The Tommy commander must be inexperienced.' Lehmann confirmed that the escort was moving away, and after thirty minutes Lorenz gave orders to surface and reload.

The night was still uncompromisingly dark but as they made their way back toward the convoy one of the lookouts spotted a light. Lorenz looked through his binoculars and saw that its source was a carbon arc lamp being aimed from the deck of a destroyer at a listing, burned-out carcass. Somewhere inside the wreck, a
fire reignited and made the windows of the superstructure glow. The destroyer was clearly searching for survivors, although Lorenz couldn't see any.

‘Is that our steamer?' asked Falk. ‘The one we attacked? Or did U-112 do this?'

‘It's difficult to say,' said Lorenz. ‘We'll have to ask headquarters.'

They stopped at a distance of approximately 800 meters from the rescue operation. The destroyer was completely unaware of their approach.

‘What shall we do?' asked Falk in a hushed voice.

The officers became restive as they waited for Lorenz's tardy answer. ‘There's nothing more to accomplish here.'

‘But the steamer, Kaleun,' said Falk. ‘It's offering an easy broadside.' He glanced nervously at Pullman.

Ignoring Falk's remark, Lorenz spoke into the communications pipe. ‘Turn the boat around. Ahead slow.'

‘Herr Kaleun,' said Pullman. ‘I don't understand.'

‘What don't you understand?'

‘Aren't we obliged to deliver a
coup de grâce
?'

‘No—we are not.'

‘But in the handbook it says quite clearly—'

‘I don't care what the fucking handbook says!'

Pullman bridled. ‘I was merely seeking clarification, Herr Kaleun.'

‘We're turning around. Is that clear enough? And don't ever question my judgment on
my
bridge again or I'll have you thrown over the side.'

The men on the bridge stiffened as they awaited the outcome of the altercation. After a long silence Pullman raised his hand and said, ‘Permission to leave the bridge?'

‘Granted,' Lorenz replied, adding under his breath: ‘With great pleasure.'

When Pullman had gone Falk whispered. ‘Has he gone to make notes?'

‘That's very likely,' said Lorenz.

‘Aren't you worried?'

‘When we've finished this patrol and we're cruising through the Goulet de Brest then I'll start worrying. Right now, that feels very distant.'