‘Do you know anything about our special operation, sir?’ Lorenz asked.
Someone on their table had just delivered the punchline of a joke, and most of Lorenz’s sentence was lost in the uproar that followed.
‘What did you say?’ Cohausz cupped his hand around his ear and leaned closer toward Lorenz.
‘I said: do you know anything about our special operation, Kommodore?’
‘What special operation?’ Cohausz’s eyes were bright but without intelligence.
‘The British commander and the Norwegian academic,’ said Lorenz. ‘We had to pick them up off the coast of Iceland. There was an SS officer — Friedrich.’
‘Ah yes,’ Cohausz swallowed more wine. ‘I heard about that. Unfortunate — most unfortunate — but never mind.’ The flotilla chief angled a bottle over Lorenz’s glass. It was not a controlled movement, and some of the Burgundy spotted the table cloth. ‘Keep up. You’re falling behind.’
‘Where did the orders come from, sir?’ Lorenz had to raise his voice to be heard.
Cohausz’s expression soured, his features curdling into an exaggerated grimace. ‘Not now, Lorenz. Not here. Tomorrow: leave it till tomorrow. You can talk to the Lion about it directly.’
‘He’s coming to Brest?’
‘Yes, tomorrow.’
A large white dish appeared in front of Lorenz. On it were several thick slices of pork loin, steaming potatoes, and a heap of boiled cabbage. Condiments in small bowls were deposited around the rim of the dish with such deft discretion that the waiters might have been stage magicians.
‘Sir,’ said Lorenz, conscious of his new decoration. ‘My crew… There are several men who should be rewarded for good service.’
‘Of course, of course,’ Cohausz responded. ‘Just fill out the forms and submit them to my aide for disposition.’
A disembodied voice spoke the words ‘bon appétit.’
When Lorenz placed the pork in his mouth it seemed to melt away to nothingness, as though he were eating spirit food, and the flavor that lingered was so rich and sweet and wholesome, so free of canker and rot, that he almost swooned. All thoughts concerning the special operation were immediately wiped from his mind.
‘Good?’ asked Cohausz.
‘Wonderful, sir,’ Lorenz replied.
The next day was cold, and a tenacious frost made the world sparkle beneath a wide and cloudless sky. Dressed in their number-one blue uniforms, the crew had assembled in two ranks on the parade ground. At ten o’clock precisely a black limousine rolled into view. The back doors flew open and Vice Admiral Dönitz jumped out accompanied by several aides. He was remarkably tall for a former submariner, and the flapping of his coat suggested the emergence of a large, predatory bird. As he approached, his features clarified: he possessed a high forehead and a mouth that in repose had a tendency to wilt at its extremities. His expression was serious, perhaps even grave, and his wiry body moved with determined energy.
‘Attention!’ Lorenz saluted. When Dönitz came to a halt Lorenz stepped forward. ‘Sir: report the safe return of U-330.’ Dönitz nodded and said, ‘Put your men at ease.’ Lorenz called out, ‘At ease.’ Adopting a more casual attitude, Dönitz shook hands with all of the officers, and as he turned to face the troop Lorenz called, ‘Eyes right.’ Dönitz walked slowly along the first line with Lorenz following a few paces behind him. Occasionally, the Vice Admiral stopped to engage a particular individual in a little friendly conversation, but the intensity of his expression was constant. When he had completed his inspection, Dönitz distanced himself from the ranks, folded his arms, and raised his chin. ‘Well,’ he began, ‘this last patrol has cost us dearly. One man lost and another badly injured. But…’ He paused and the corners of his mouth curled upward, ‘thirty-one thousand tons.’ His head began to rock backward and forward, ‘Not bad at all.’ Before continuing, he allowed a brief silence to encourage thoughtful reflection. ‘Sometimes we must pay dearly for our accomplishments. Comrades, the fate of the German Reich hangs on your successes. This war will not be decided in Russia. This war will not be decided in Great Britain. This war will be decided in the waters of the Atlantic Ocean. Know that—and be proud.’
Turning abruptly, the vice admiral marched off in the direction of the waiting Mercedes. The aides, surprised by his sudden departure, rushed after him. Lorenz called the crew to attention but Dönitz didn’t look back. He got into the limousine and when his aides had caught up with him, the doors slammed and the driver turned on the ignition. Gravel crunched under the tires as the Mercedes pulled away.
‘When are you seeing him?’ Graf asked Lorenz.
‘Later this afternoon,’ Lorenz replied.
‘Rather you than me, Kaleun,’ whispered Graf.
Spending time in the company of a ‘lion’ was inevitably a fraught and complicated experience.
Lorenz was obliged to supervise the transport of U-330 to one of the dry pens. He descended the ladder into the control room and found that the stink of bilge water, body odor, and mold still persisted. There were some sacks by the chart table. Two of them were bulging with refuse: disintegrating newspapers, paperback books with split spines, broken crockery, and a pair of Zeiss binoculars with cracked lenses. Another sack contained miscellaneous personal possessions: torn photographs, scarves, a pair of braces, and, somewhat incongruously, a single silk stocking. Lorenz peered through the forward hatchway and saw Uli Wilhelm, one of the bosun’s mates, standing outside the sound room. There was something odd about his attitude, unbalanced, as though the movement of his limbs had suddenly been arrested before an action was completed. His eyes were wide open and the irises surrounded by disproportionately large amounts of exposed sclera. He did not look like a man who had been simply taken by surprise.
‘Wilhelm?’ Lorenz inquired, concerned.
‘Kaleun?’ Wilhelm’s voice was tremulous. He continued to stare at his commander for a few moments before he blinked and repeated ‘Kaleun,’ this second time with greater confidence and certainty, as if he were now satisfied that the evidence of his senses could be trusted, whereas before he had been doubtful.
Wilhelm’s presence was not unexpected. He was responsible for the final tidying of the compartments and removal of personal property after the boat had returned to port.
‘What on earth’s the matter?’ said Lorenz.
Slowly, Wilhelm’s limbs settled into a more natural position and he performed a somewhat belated, perfunctory salute. ‘Nothing… Kaleun, I…’
‘Yes?’
‘I’ve almost finished.’
‘Good.’ Wilhelm looked over his shoulder. ‘Are you all right, Wilhelm?’
‘Yes, Herr Kaleun.’
‘You seem a little…’
‘Too much to drink last night, sir.’ The swiftness of Wilhelm’s trite justification betrayed an absence of thought.
Lorenz climbed through the hatchway, walked over to his nook, and pulled the curtain back. He was about to open his cabinet but was conscious of the fact that Wilhelm hadn’t moved. ‘Shouldn’t you be taking those sacks up to the bridge?’
The bosun’s mate didn’t answer the question. Instead he said, ‘I haven’t looked in there. I assumed that you wouldn’t leave anything behind.’
‘Well,’ said Lorenz. ‘I’m grateful that you are of the opinion that my rank entitles me to greater privacy than the rest of you, but I’m a member of the crew, just like everyone else, and you are equally obliged to remove any of my possessions if I fail to take them away.’ Lorenz opened the bedside cabinet and felt along the shelves. Wilhelm remained standing in the same position.