‘Our universe,’ Müller continued, ‘proved to be very much larger than anybody had previously imagined.’ He drew on his cigarette and added, ‘Unimaginably larger.’
‘What do we know?’ mused Lorenz. ‘What do we really know?’
‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio…’ Müller stubbed his cigarette out on the bulwark.
‘Ah,’ said Lorenz, ‘our Shakespeare.’
‘I thought Shakespeare was English,’ said Wessel.
‘Well,’ Lorenz said, his voice acquiring the whine of an equivocator. ‘That’s not strictly true. One must never forget that the English are Germans really, and that they are ruled by a German royal family.’
‘Then why are we fighting them, sir?’ asked Wessel.
‘A good question,’ Lorenz replied.
‘Herr Kaleun — don’t confuse the boy,’ said Müller.
The steward had set up an impromptu barber shop in the forward torpedo room, and his services were much in demand. His scissors seemed to be clicking incessantly. Hair was cut, beards trimmed, and the heady scent of cologne was almost overpowering. Be that as it may, the undertow of rancid sweat and mold could not be entirely mitigated. It was always there, like an indelible stain. Heroic efforts were being made in the petty officers’ quarters to clean grubby uniforms as Zarah Leander’s contralto warbled over the public-address system. A number of men joined in when she reached the sentimental chorus, and their voices achieved the resonant unity of a monastic order singing plainchant.
At dawn, U-330 surfaced, and Lorenz climbed onto the bridge. Two minesweepers were waiting to escort the returning submarine past the Ouessant islands, around the Pointe de St-Mathieu, and through the Goulet de Brest. The sea was calm, almost flat, and a thin mist made the air luminescent and gauzy. Members of the crew who had no duties to perform were permitted to relax on the deck, to ventilate their clothes, and enjoy the freshness of the air. The boat’s churning wake was long and effervescent — as though the rear ballast tanks were leaking champagne.
Lorenz inhaled, filling his lungs to their full capacity. ‘Can you smell it?’
Falk was standing beside him on the bridge. ‘Land?’
‘Yes,’ Lorenz replied. Victory pennants, snapping in the breeze, had been attached to a line running from the rear safety rail to the top of the periscope. Added together, the figures amounted to 31,000 tons. It was a respectable total (many boats returned with no pennants flying at all). But it would have been a lot higher if all the torpedoes had worked.
Lorenz climbed down to the deck and milled around as though at a social gathering, telling jokes and engaging his men in banter. They were all so excited at the prospect of visiting the Casino Bar that virtually every exchange contained a lewd double meaning. Hoffmann was already forgotten — although not quite. Lorenz had written a letter of condolence to Frau Hoffmann and he was carrying it in the inside pocket of his jacket. He intended to post the letter as soon as he was given an opportunity to do so.
Gazing up at the conning tower, Lorenz noted how weather-beaten the structure looked. The bulwark was streaked with rust and much of the grey paint was peeling due to the abrasive Atlantic salt and prolonged exposure to depth-charge explosions. In some places, the bright red undercoat was showing. The scorpion emblem was faded, and the sting at the end of its curving tail had been completely worn away. Lorenz supposed that in addition to having all of her machinery checked and serviced, U-330 would also need extensive rust treatment. He wondered how long it would take. Six weeks? Maybe more…
The elevated coastline of Brittany came into view, and soon they were negotiating the narrow entrance to the harbor. A pale sun was beginning to dispel the thinning mist. They followed the old sea wall which was mounted with pillboxes. Set back on higher ground was the naval college — a massive central block flanked by three-storey wings. The brickwork facade had been painted with irregular patches to camouflage it from enemy aircraft. Over the sea wall Lorenz could see the U-boat — bunker complex. The austere concrete edifice appeared low and flat, and the individual pens were like a row of dark windows. Much of the building was covered in a mesh of scaffold, and it was clearly still far from finished. The sound of industry carried across the water. In front of the pens was a ramshackle barricade of expendable hulks fitted with extended masts to deter low-flying allied bombers. Some were being used to anchor barrage balloons that floated above the harbor like giant kites.
A launch came out to meet them. On board were an administrative officer and the 1st Flotilla surgeon, who immediately attended to the ailing Richter. A bottle of brandy was produced, and Lorenz was asked to wait for further orders before docking. Apparently, the preparations for the boat’s reception were not quite finished, and the Ministry of Propaganda had sent a cameraman. ‘I hope you understand,’ said the officer. Lorenz concealed his annoyance and poured himself another drink. He knew that his crew’s high spirits could easily result in some unruly behavior if they were delayed indefinitely; however, he need not have worried, because after thirty minutes or so Ziegler brought a brief and informal message to the bridge: U-330 PROCEED.
Before reaching the pier head Lorenz ordered Graf to switch from diesel to electric power. A great crowd had gathered in tiers against a backdrop of picturesque buildings with conical turrets and tall chimney stacks. He saw immaculately accoutred officers, a military band, a naval guard of honor, troops dressed in grey and blue, the mayor and his wife, and a horde of port employees waving their hands and cheering. In front of the pier was a large barge which they could tie up to, and on this vessel stood Hans Cohausz, Commander of the 1st Flotilla, accompanied by his aide and a pretty blonde female auxiliary who was holding a garland of flowers. Another man was on the barge, equipped with a cine camera, aiming it first at the crowd and then swinging the lens around to film the incoming boat. Small bouquets began to rain down on the bridge, and the port employees began to clap.
U-330 arrived alongside the barge and the two vessels came together with a slight bump. A shrill whistle sounded, and the mooring crew set to work fastening the hawsers. At that point, the band struck up a rousing march. ‘Stop motors,’ Lorenz shouted above the din. ‘Assemble on the aft deck: fall in.’ The men lined up to be presented to the flotilla commander, and Lorenz climbed down the tower followed by Graf, Falk, and Juhl.
Cohausz marched over the gangplank, and Lorenz cried, ‘Attention!’ He could sense his crew responding, a tension transmitted through the air. The commanders saluted each other, and Lorenz said, ‘Report U-330 returning from patrol, Herr Kommodore.’ Cohausz took Lorenz’s hand and shook it with forceful energy. ‘Congratulations, Lorenz. Welcome back.’ The aide removed a case from under his arm and opened it to give the commodore access to the medal inside: an Iron Cross First Class. Cohausz lifted the decoration from a bed of blue velvet and pinned it on the left side of Lorenz’s chest. There was more saluting, more handshaking, and the pretty auxiliary stepped forward, curtsied, and hung the garland around Lorenz’s neck. Sauer led a chorus of hurrahs. When Lorenz looked up, into a bright, dazzling sky, all he could see was a flock of swooping seagulls and an endless shower of bouquets.
FURLOUGH
That evening a traditional celebration banquet was held at the naval academy. It was a grand affair and the tables were laid out with fine linen and chased silver. A number of distinguished officers had been invited and all of those assembled were in service dress. Embroidered gold-eagle and swastika breast emblems shone vividly against worsted blue wool. Lorenz was seated next to Cohausz, whose cheeks were aglow even before the second course had arrived.