The Passenger (8 page)

‘I'm sorry,' Lorenz said in English. ‘I can't take you on board; however, I can inform you that your radio operator succeeded in sending out a distress call, so someone may come to your assistance. Otherwise, you might consider maintaining a north-easterly course and there is a reasonable chance that by tomorrow afternoon you will be sighted by an airplane or encounter a fishing boat. Here, take this.' Lorenz took the compass from his pocket and tossed it into the lifeboat. ‘Iceland isn't far and the weather forecast is good. We aren't expecting any more storms for the next few days at least.' Lorenz became aware of a familiar smell, a whiff of grilled meat blending with the pungent, oily fumes. There was another detonation and the tanker flames flared. Some of the seated men had suffered terrible burns. Beetroot-colored flesh sagged and ran down their faces like melted candle wax. Lying in the lifeboat were other men with charred heads and smoldering clothes. They had obviously been pulled out of the water too late. Lorenz was thankful when the tanker flames died down again. ‘I have some provisions for you,' he continued. ‘Food, water, milk: not much, I know, but it will be enough to ease your discomfort for a day or so—should that prove necessary.' He lowered the sack and two men reached up to receive it. They were close enough for him to see the whites of their eyes. None of them said anything. It would have been easier had they shouted abuse. Their neutrality, their dignified silence, their refusal to judge, made him profoundly uncomfortable. ‘Good luck.' Lorenz did not betray his feelings. His voice was firm and steady. ‘I hope that someone finds you soon.' And with that, he turned and began walking back to the tower. He heard the lifeboat casting off, oars striking the hull and producing gong-like reverberations.

Another cloud of smoke, perhaps produced by the final detonation, rolled across the water. It was thick, and advanced in collapsing folds. Within seconds, Lorenz couldn't breathe. Each inhalation seemed to excoriate his windpipe and fill his lungs with tar. The smoke was all around him and impenetrable. Ahead, the conning tower was no longer visible and the gun was fading. He found himself isolated and benighted, choking on foul, bitter smuts. He needed to escape asphyxiation but he quickly became disoriented and couldn't decide which way to run. There seemed to be someone standing ahead of him, an outline in the obscurity. It was odd that Lorenz could see anything at all, because in all other respects he was blind. Somehow, a shaft of moonlight must have penetrated the murk because the figure was faintly luminous.

‘Falk?' Lorenz spluttered into his hand. ‘Is that you, Falk?' Even as he repeated the first watch officer's name he did so without conviction. Falk hadn't been wearing a long coat. A short delay—filled with mounting disquiet—was followed by the recognition of further peculiarities. Why hadn't the man made any noise? And why was he seemingly immune to the effects of the polluted air? There was something challenging about his stance, as if he meant to hinder Lorenz's progress.

‘Who's there?' Lorenz demanded. ‘Speak, damn you!' But there was no reply. Smoke made Lorenz's eyes sting and everything became distorted. The figure became a grey-blue smear against the roiling darkness. Another gust of wind pushed the smoke across the deck and out onto the water on the other side of the boat. The smear of luminosity seemed to become enfolded in the turbulence, and when Lorenz regained his focus the figure had disappeared. Lorenz supposed that the poisons he had inhaled had been the cause of some kind of hallucination. A scarcely perceptible breath of warning had passed through his ribcage. The sensation was subtle and it had vanished before he had had the opportunity to ascertain its significance.

Falk appeared from behind the gun and came forward.

‘Did you say something, Herr Kaleun?'

‘I told you to stay up there.' Lorenz pointed at the bridge.

‘Kaleun: the smoke came over and we couldn't see what was happening.' Lorenz nodded, and their eyes locked. ‘I bet they were grateful,' Falk added, smiling.

‘Grateful?' Lorenz sighed. ‘For torpedoing their vessel and killing their comrades? I doubt it.'

‘I meant for the food,' said Falk.

‘Ah yes, the food.' Lorenz wiped some moisture from his eyes. ‘They were delighted. They couldn't thank me enough. Indeed, they expressed particular satisfaction when they discovered the tinned chicken. It was as much as they could do to stop themselves from ripping the cans open and devouring the lot there and then.' The first watch officer appeared dispirited. ‘How long have you been loitering there, Falk?'

‘I've only just gotten here, Kaleun.'

‘And you're on your own?'

‘Yes.'

‘There's no one else?'

Falk, puzzled, looked around. ‘No, sir—just me.'

There was a monstrous creaking sound followed by rusty screeches. The stern of the tanker rose out of the water, and for a moment the ship held an almost vertical position, as steep as a cliff. Then, with a great roar, it dropped beneath the waves, and the sea closed over it.

‘We'd better get going,' said Lorenz.

On the bridge, Lorenz took one last look through his binoculars. The lifeboat was surrounded by flotsam, lots of objects—all roughly the same size—creating a regular pattern on the surface. It took him a few seconds to appreciate what he was looking at. Each element of the pattern was a dead body.

T
HE MIASMA IN THE BOW
compartment was almost overwhelming: bilge water, moldering food, body odor, and the cloying smell of decomposing lemons. Two naked light bulbs seemed to intensify rather than relieve the gloom. Hammocks were suspended between the upper bunks requiring those passing through to stoop or crawl. Conditions were horribly cramped, and it was difficult to make even relatively small movements without hitting a rail, a locker, salted meat, or a slimy green cheese. Some of the berths were occupied by sleeping off-watch men, and one of them was snoring loudly. Occasionally, he would stop breathing, and a lengthy pause would be followed by a loud, protracted gasp. They were hemmed in like livestock and made nauseous by the perpetual roll of the boat. Belches, fetid exhalations, flatulence—there was no escaping the indignities of the body in the bow compartment.

Berger was lying on his side, propped up on his elbow, staring at a blank sheet of paper and trying unsuccessfully to compose a letter to his girlfriend. He repositioned his body on the mattress but was still uncomfortable.

‘What's her name?' asked Peters.

‘Rosamunde,' Berger answered.

‘How old is she?'

‘Seventeen.'

Kruger leaned out of his bunk into the feeble light. His face was covered in red rashes and boils caused by the grease he was obliged to work with. A torpedo man could always be identified by his bad skin and the tang of iodine ointment. Kruger leered at Peters and said, ‘Just seventeen. Think of it . . .' Leaning out a little further, he added: ‘What have you got there?'

Peters rolled over so he was facing the hull. ‘Nothing.'

‘Yes you have.' Kruger got out of his bunk and wrestled with Peters. After a short struggle he triumphantly held up a bra. ‘Oh, will you look at this!' Kruger pulled the shoulder straps apart and let the cups dangle. ‘Who does it belong to?'

‘Just a girl,' said Peters sheepishly.

‘You stole it?' Kruger feigned shock.

Stein appeared and snatched the bra from Kruger. He held it against his face, inhaled, and said, ‘I can smell her.'

They all froze when they heard Lorenz say, ‘How cosy it is in here.' His approach had been silent. Kicking an empty can of tinned fruit aside he advanced a few more steps. He was wearing a sweater and his white cap was rakishly askew. ‘Obersteuermannsmaat Stein, if you'd put that fetching female undergarment down for a moment I'd like to offer you a drink.'

‘Kaleun?' Stein handed the bra back to Peters.

Lorenz produced his bottle of rum and filled two small glasses. He handed one of them to Stein and said, ‘I believe it's your birthday. And my birthday wish for you is . . .' he hesitated for a moment, ‘is that you have a future. Any future, frankly, let alone a happy one.'

‘Thank you, Herr Kaleun,' said Stein.

They touched glasses and knocked back their measures. Stein coughed. The rum was particularly strong. Lorenz reached out to Peters and indicated that he wanted to examine the bra. Peters handed it over and Lorenz gazed down at the brocade trim which had become slightly soiled with oil. The atmosphere became a little tense as the men wondered what the skipper was thinking. After a lengthy pause he looked up, scanned the expectant faces, and burst out laughing. ‘Good for morale, is it? Perhaps I should advise Admiral Dönitz to make bras standard issue. One never knows. It could prove to be the difference between victory and defeat.' He threw the bra at Peters and sauntered back toward his nook. ‘If the Führer knew what his sea-wolves were really like he'd sleep like a baby, wouldn't he? Truly, the fate of the Reich is safe in our hands.'

T
HE MESSAGE FROM
U-
BOAT HEADQUARTERS
was brief:
ALL U-BOATS IN GRID AD INTERCEPT CONVOY HX IN AD 79. ATTACK
WITHOUT FURTHER ORDERS.
The helmsman changed course and the diesels ran at full speed. In the forward compartment, torpedoes were removed three quarters out of their tubes—batteries recharged, instrumentation checked. Reserve torpedoes were greased and serviced. When Lorenz was satisfied that everything was in order, he retired to his nook where he dozed periodically. For an indeterminate length of time he was returned to the black waters of his nightmare and he saw, once again, a raft carrying two figures floating toward him. The image dissolved when the hull started juddering loudly. Thereafter, sleep became elusive and he rose from his bed and went to collect his jacket from the radio room where he had left it draped over the heater to dry. The leather was still damp and patterned with stains that exuded a horrible rotting smell caused by a prolific mold that had also colonized his shirt, belt, and shoes. Lorenz put on his jacket and tried to remove the larger patches with a penknife. He soon abandoned the exercise on account of its sheer futility. The mold was everywhere: on the crew's clothes, in their bedding, and growing immoderately on the meat and cheese. There was no point in trying to halt its proliferation.

Werner, the cook, was preparing breakfast for the second watch, and the clatter of his plates carried through the boat. Lorenz crossed the control room, climbed through the aft hatchway and, stepping over a man sleeping on a mat, walked onward to the galley, eager for a large, restorative coffee. He would have made some polite conversation with Werner, a popular, good-humored man, but the engines were making too much noise. Standing in the petty officers' quarters Lorenz marveled at how the men in the bunks were able to sleep in spite of the din. He had only just swallowed the bitter dregs from the bottom of his cup when Graf appeared and said, ‘You're wanted on the bridge, Kaleun.'

Lorenz emerged from the hatch, said good morning to the watchmen, and positioned himself by the bulwark. He nodded at Juhl: ‘I have the conn'. Beyond the dipping bow the sea was a
restless, prehistoric immensity. If a great marine lizard had broken the surface and extended its sinuous neck to scream at the pewter sky he would not have been wholly surprised. Juhl handed Lorenz a pair of binoculars and gestured in a southwesterly direction. ‘There they are.' Lorenz adjusted the thumbscrew and observed a smear of darkness on the horizon. ‘Yes,' Lorenz agreed. ‘That's a convoy all right.' As he studied the smoke it expanded outward. Lorenz removed the stopper from the communications pipe and directed a slight alteration of course. Spume arced over the bridge, and the boat veered toward the spreading cloud. Mastheads peeped over the flat grey line of the sea and their slow ascent presaged the appearance of two ships: escorts, traveling ahead of the convoy. More mastheads came into view, and then the funnels of the cargo ships. Lorenz estimated that these merchant craft would be within firing range in approximately one hour. ‘So,' he said, returning the binoculars to Juhl and clapping his hands together. ‘Let's make Dönitz happy. Clear the bridge!' Immediately the lookouts and Juhl descended the ladder. Lorenz shouted through the communications pipe, ‘Prepare to dive!' before following the others and dogging the hatch.