Falk was looking at Lorenz, his eyebrows raised, expectant. ‘Shouldn’t we finish her off?’
‘She isn’t going to recover from that,’ said Lorenz. ‘Believe me.’
‘We mustn’t waste our torpedoes.’ Juhl ventured his opinion in a subdued monotone. ‘We haven’t got many left.’
‘Yes,’ Lorenz agreed. ‘There’s no need to deliver a coup de grâce. We’ve snapped her in half — she’ll go down in no time.’
Lorenz gave orders for the boat to turn and reduce speed. The tanker was burning with such fierce intensity that the clouds beneath the moon were reflecting red light. The wind carried with it an acrid smell that left a bitter taste at the back of the throat. Brandt’s head appeared through the hatch and the radio operator handed Lorenz a slip of paper. On it was the British code signifying that the tanker had been attacked by a submarine, the tanker’s name—Excelsior—some position coordinates and a three-word communication: Torpedoed. Sinking fast. Lorenz read the message out aloud, translating the English into German.
‘He used the international frequencies,’ said Brandt.
‘Is he still signaling?’
‘No.’
‘Good.’
Someone gave Brandt the Lloyd’s register, and the radio operator passed it up to Lorenz. Juhl shone a flashlight over the text as the commander flicked through the pages. On finding the tanker’s entry Lorenz declared, ‘Eleven thousand, three hundred and nine tons.’ He then gave the register back to Brandt who dropped from view. There was a cheer and some applause from below.
Most of the tanker was hidden by billowing smoke. Occasionally, a fountain of sparks would ascend to a great height and volcanic showers made the water hiss and steam. When the holds exploded the noise was formidable, and Lorenz shielded his face from successive blasts of hot air. Metal twisted and groaned and a blazing oil slick made the swell incandesce. The scene seemed too sensational, too terrifying to be real. It resembled the brimstone daubing of some melancholy nineteenth-century painter irresistibly attracted to the theme of Biblical catastrophe. Lorenz had seen canvases of this type in art museums, always immense nightscapes the size of a gallery wall, enlivened by forked lightning and ruinous eruptions.
U-330 was slowly getting closer to the conflagration. The faces of the men on the bridge had become florid as they stared over the bulwark with oxblood eyes. It was like being exposed to an open furnace. The only visible part of the tanker, the stern, began to list.
‘It’s going,’ said Falk.
Against the constant crackling and popping of the burning sea the sound of screams and cries could now be heard. Lorenz looked through his binoculars. Men were vaulting over the safety rails. Some of the figures were surrounded by glowing coronas and trailed fiery tails like meteors as they plummeted into the water.
Juhl produced a handkerchief and coughed into it. The air was barely breathable. ‘We’re getting rather close, don’t you think?’
Lorenz, roused from awful fascination, leaned over the hatch. ‘Reverse diesels. Back one-quarter.’ The smoke was still thickening. More detonations and flashes made the clouds transparent. There was something biological about their appearance, a hint of internal organs and vasculature. The screams were becoming intolerable. Why were they making such a racket, Lorenz wondered. It was physically impossible. The firestorm should be using up all of the available oxygen and the men should be suffocating in silence. If they opened their mouths the burning air would rush into their mouths. Why were they still screaming?
‘Poor bastards,’ said Müller. No one contradicted him. All were sharing the same thought.
Eventually, the smoke enveloped the tanker completely. Only the moon was visible: its argent purity soiled and dimmed to a dun haze.
Lorenz glanced at the phosphorescent dial of his watch. If a British destroyer operating in the area had picked up the distress call then it would now be speeding toward them. Yet Lorenz felt disinclined to leave. He found himself giving orders for U-330 to maneuver slowly around the stricken tanker. Its demise was compelling.
‘What’s that?’ Juhl pointed into the black fog. ‘I don’t believe it.’
Looking through his binoculars Lorenz saw a lifeboat coming toward them. The haze was layered and in constant motion. When veils of obfuscation overlapped the boat faded and all but disappeared. It maintained a steady course, becoming less spectral and more plainly material as it neared.
Falk was incredulous. ‘The sea is on fire…’
‘There must have been a way through,’ said Juhl.
The merest suggestion that something inexplicable had occurred made the men on the bridge uneasy. They displayed an alarming readiness to interpret the world in terms of portents and signs — bad omens.
Lorenz ordered the engines to be stopped. Falk looked at the commander askance and then turned his attention to the others. They seemed tense, fidgety — like a pen of domesticated animals sensing the proximity of an abattoir. When the diesel engines fell silent it was possible to hear the regular rhythm of rowing strokes and the creaking of oarlocks. The occupants of the lifeboat were coughing like a ward full of consumptive patients. This unequivocal declaration of human frailty caused the atmosphere on the bridge to change. The supernatural aura formerly surrounding the lifeboat was dispelled by the evident vulnerability of the men on board.
‘Brandt!’ Lorenz shouted into the hatch. ‘Someone get Brandt.’ A few seconds later the radio operator reappeared. ‘Survivors, Brandt. About twelve men, I’d say.’ The radio operator was also responsible for provisions. ‘Can we spare something?’
‘I’ll see what I can find.’
‘And a compass — see if you can dig out a compass — there’s one under the chart table. I have no idea what it’s doing there — a cheap toy — the sort of thing a schoolboy might own. Even so: better than nothing on the open sea.’
There were more detonations but the screaming had ceased.
Red and yellow flashes penetrated the sooty pall and the effect was horribly infernal. The approaching lifeboat might have been navigating through the waterways of hell.
Brandt returned with a bulging sack.
‘What’s inside?’ Lorenz asked.
‘Water, some cans of condensed milk: the cook wasn’t happy — but there we are.’ Brandt spread his fingers out. ‘Ten cans of boneless chicken meat and a piece of cheese.’
‘Good.’
‘And the compass, Kaleun.’
‘Thank you.’ Lorenz threw the sack over his shoulder and looked around at his companions. ‘Stay here.’ Falk exempted himself from the order and started to follow. ‘No,’ Lorenz added, ‘I’ll do this on my own.’ The first watch officer stepped back. Lorenz’s precise motivation was unclear, but he was aware of some scruple that demanded he accept full responsibility for his command. To do anything less would be cowardly. His rank obliged him to look directly into the eyes of these ‘poor bastards’ without flinching. He climbed down the conning tower ladder and walked along the deck, past the 8.8 cm gun, and toward the bow. As the lifeboat drew closer he noticed that the woodwork was striped with scorch marks. A coxswain was seated at the tiller and six oars rose and fell in rough synchrony. The wind cleared some of the smoke and the ruddy light of the burning tanker revealed a gang of filthy men who were either completely bald or possessed only patches of singed hair. None of them had eyebrows. They looked very similar, as if they all shared a common congenital abnormality. The coxswain issued some final directions and the lifeboat scraped to a halt against the iron bow. Some of the men were retching so hard it seemed that they meant to expel their innards through their mouths.