‘What can you see?’
‘It’s… I don’t know what it is.’
Lorenz lifted his binoculars and aimed them into the mist. He was able to detect drifting filaments, a hint of depth, but nothing materialized below the shifting, restless textures. ‘All right, I’m coming down.’ He squeezed past the lookouts, descended the ladder, and walked with great care toward the bow, where he found Peters standing in front of the gun and gazing out to sea.
‘Kaleun,’ Peters raised his hand and pointed. The commander positioned himself beside the seaman. ‘You can’t see it now. But it was just there.’
‘Debris, a container — what?’
‘Not flotsam. Too high in the water.’
‘An iceberg, then. You saw an iceberg, Peters.’
‘No, Herr Kaleun.’ The man was offended. ‘With respect, sir. No. It wasn’t an iceberg. I’m sure it wasn’t an iceberg.’
They were joined by two others: Kruger, a torpedo mechanic, and a boyish seaman called Berger. All of them were boyish, but Berger looked obscenely young — like a child.
‘Ah, yes,’ said Berger, ‘I think… Yes, I see it.’
‘There! There you are.’ Peters jabbed his finger at the mist.
Shadows gathered and connected: a vertical line acquired definition. Like a theatrical effect, gauzy curtains were drawn back until a pale silhouette was revealed. The object was a makeshift raft with barrels attached to the sides. A figure was leaning against a central post — one arm raised, a hand gripping the upper extremity for support, his right cheek pressed against his own bicep. The man’s attitude suggested exhaustion and imminent collapse. Another figure was sitting close by: knees bent, feet flat, head slumped forward.
Lorenz’s fingers closed around the safety rail and he felt the intense cold through his gloves. He called out: ‘You. Who are you? Identify yourselves.’
A blast of raw wind swept away more of the mist. The figures on the raft did not move. Lorenz tried hailing them in English — but this also had no effect. Above the horizon, the sun showed through the cloud, no more substantial than a faintly drawn circle.
Lorenz raised his binoculars again and focused his attention on the standing figure. The man had empty sockets where his eyes should have been and his nose had been eaten away. Much of the flesh on the exposed side of his face was missing, creating a macabre, lopsided grin. A fringe of icicles hung from his chin, which made him look like a character from a Russian fairytale, a winter goblin or some other supernatural inhabitant of the Siberian steppe. Lorenz shifted his attention to the seated man, whose trousers were torn. Ragged hems revealed the lower bones of his legs. The raft was drifting toward the stationary U-boat and Berger whispered, ‘They’re dead.’
The milky disc of the sun disappeared.
‘But one of them’s standing up,’ said Peters.
‘He must be frozen solid,’ replied Kruger.
Lorenz settled the issue. ‘They’re dead all right.’ He handed Peters the binoculars.
The diesel hand whistled. ‘That’s horrible. How did it happen?’
‘Gulls,’ said Lorenz. ‘They must have pecked out their eyes and torn off strips of flesh as the raft was carried north.’
‘Extraordinary,’ Peters handed the binoculars to Kruger. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it. And one still standing… poor bastard.’
‘Who are they?’ asked Berger.
‘They’re from a liner,’ Lorenz replied. ‘Look at those life jackets. They’re ancient. A warship wouldn‘t carry life jackets like that.’
The commander and his men stood, captivated, watching the raft’s steady approach. Waves slapped against the hull. Lorenz wondered how long this ghoulish pair had been floating around the arctic, and he toyed with a fanciful notion that they might, perhaps, have been adrift for years, even decades.
Kruger handed the binoculars back to Lorenz, who raised them one last time. The lopsided grin of the standing figure was oddly communicative.
‘Well,’ said Lorenz, letting go of the binoculars and clapping his hands together, ‘Let’s move on. We don’t want the Tommies catching us like this — enjoying the weather and mixing with the locals.’
One of the radio men, Ziegler, stepped out of his room and called out, ‘Officer’s signal.’ Juhl squeezed past some petty officers, collected the message, and set up the decoding machine. He did this with a degree of studied ostentation, supplementing his actions with flourishes reminiscent of a concert artist. The machine looked like a complicated typewriter in a wooden case. In addition to the standard keys, there was a lamp-board, three protruding disc-shaped rotors, and a panel of sockets that could be connected with short lengths of cable. Lorenz handed Juhl a piece of paper on which he had already written the daily code setting. The second-watch officer configured the machine and proceeded to type. His brow furrowed and he turned to address Lorenz. Speaking in a confidential whisper he said, ‘For the Commander only.’ Lorenz nodded, picked up the machine and took it into his nook, where he readjusted the settings according to his own special instructions.
Receipt of a triply encrypted message was an unusual occurrence. Lorenz could hear the muffled whispers of hushed speculation. When he finally emerged from behind his green curtain, he handed the code machine back to Juhl and climbed through the circular hatchway that led to the control room. He stood by the chart table and studied a mildewed, crumbling map of the North Atlantic. Altering the angle of the lamp, he moved a circle of bright illumination across the grid squares. Above the table was a tangle of pipes and a black iron wheel.
There was a sense of expectation, and men started to gather, all of them pretending to be engaged in some crucial task. Lorenz rolled up the sleeves of his sweater and pushed his cap back, exposing his high forehead and a lick of black hair. ‘How confident are you — about our position?’
Müller, the navigator, cleared his throat: ‘It’s been a while since I’ve looked up into a clear sky.’ He slapped his hand on the sextant box. ‘So it would be difficult to…’
‘You’re always being over cautious.’
Lorenz stepped forward and examined Müller’s plot. He took a deep breath, turned to face the group of men that had assembled behind him, and called out an order to change course. The helmsman, seated at his station, acknowledged the command and adjusted the position of the rudder. ‘Full speed ahead,’ Lorenz added. The engine telegraph was reset and a red light began to flash.
Müller glanced down at the chart and said, ‘Iceland?’
‘Thereabouts…’
‘Why?’
The red light stopped flashing and turned green.
Lorenz shrugged. ‘They didn’t say. Well, not exactly.’ The diesels roared, and the boat lurched forward, freeing itself from the grip of a tenacious wave.
The sea was calm and lit intermittently by a low moon that struggled to find gaps in the clouds. Falk, the first watch officer cried, ‘There it is.’ He had spotted the other boat — a barely visible shadow among scattered flecks of silver. Immediately, Ziegler was called to the bridge and he emerged from the tower carrying a heavy signal lamp.
‘All right,’ said Lorenz. ‘Let them know we’ve arrived.’
Light flashed across the darkness, and after a few seconds this was answered by an irregular winking.
‘He wants the recognition signal,’ said Ziegler.
‘Monsalvat,’ Lorenz replied.
‘What?’
‘Monsalvat.’ Lorenz repeated the name, stressing each syllable. Ziegler did as he was instructed, and after a brief pause the signal lamp on the other boat began to wink again. ‘A-M-F…’ The radio man identified each letter but before he could finish, Lorenz cut in and said, ‘Amfortas.’