‘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.’
The 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 Juhclass="underline" ‘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.
Submerging was invariably accompanied by a sense of wary expectancy. Human beings were not meant to survive underwater and every man understood — at some level — that he was party to an infringement, a transgression that might not be readily overlooked. They were defying Nature or Neptune or some other proprietary Personification and when the pointer on the manometer revolved, it measured not only depth, but increments of dread. The pounding of the diesels ceased, and it wasn’t until the maneuver was successfully completed that the tension in the atmosphere finally dissipated. Their hubris had gone unnoticed, or some kindly god had granted them yet another dispensation.
Lorenz sat at the attack periscope in the conning tower, securing his position by clamping his thighs around either side of the shaft. He switched on the motor and tested the pedals, rotating the column and saddle to the right and left. His fingers found the elevation control, and he raised the periscope. Conditions were very favorable, the ‘stalk’ was traveling in the same direction as the sea, and the waves were washing over the hood from behind. He was able to keep the objective low in the water, reducing the chances of being spotted while simultaneously benefiting from a clear view. Falk was standing by the computer, lightly touching its dials and buttons as if he needed to reacquaint himself with their function. There was something superstitious about his redundant movements. He seemed to be performing a private ritual.
The hatch in the deck that separated the conning tower from the control room was supposed to be closed during an underwater attack, but Lorenz always kept it open because he liked to feel in direct contact with the men below. He liked to hear Graf’s instructions and to monitor the steady flow of reports. As they drew closer to the convoy he called out, ‘Half speed ahead,’ ensuring that the size of the periscope’s wake would be reduced. A U-boat’s principle advantage was stealth. Without stealth, there was only vulnerability.
Several cargo ships were now visible. Employing 6X magnification Lorenz examined each one in turn and selected his target. He then ordered another minor change of the submarine’s course. Reverting to 1X magnification he watched the two escorts sail past.
‘Flood all tubes.’
Another escort, flanking the convoy, was very close; however, U-330 was already inside the protective perimeter.
‘Open torpedo outer doors. Course twenty. Bow left. Bearing sixty…’
Falk began feeding the information into the computer. When he had finished he addressed Lorenz, ‘Tubes one and two ready to fire.’
The electric motors seemed to hum more loudly. Lorenz could feel the release lever in his hand. The cargo ship was positioned perfectly in the crosshairs when, quite suddenly, it vanished, and Lorenz was gripping the periscope shaft tightly to prevent himself from falling off the saddle. The entire column had rotated forty-five degrees and stopped abruptly. Yet, he had not been conscious of applying any pressure to the pedals.