The fetid odors that lingered from the patrol were finally beginning to dissipate, and other smells, such as cleansing agents and wood polish could now be detected in their place. Portable lamps had been fixed on tall tripods in the control room but only one of them had been left on. Its reflective silver dish was directed at the numerous dials surrounding the hydroplane wheels. Lorenz walked from compartment to compartment, switching on lamps and trying to work out what problems the repair team had uncovered. Several deck plates had been lifted, exposing cables and accumulators. Both of the boat’s batteries had been disconnected, and abandoned tools and toolboxes confirmed that the electricians had made a sudden departure. Lorenz found the absolute quiet disconcerting. At sea there were always noises: pounding engines, humming motors, voices, creaks, waves slapping against the tower. Now, there was only a solid, unyielding silence. Lorenz drifted through the diesel room, past the tiny galley and between the tiers of bare bunk beds.
In his nook, Lorenz sat on the mattress, opened his drawer, and gazed down at the British penny. If it had been concealed between pipes, as Wilhelm had suggested, then it would have almost certainly become dislodged while depth charges were exploding around the boat. How, then, could it have been passed over in a busy torpedo room? How could it have been ignored until Wilhelm chanced to find it? Lorenz’s troubled contemplation of the coin was succeeded by more diffuse anxieties. Why, he asked himself, did I decide to come back here tonight? The absence of ready answers heightened his discomfort, yet eventually he concluded that he had returned to clarify matters — although what he truly meant by this remained imprecise. Gently, he pushed the drawer and the penny disappeared from view.
The long walk from the hotel to the military harbor had been bracing but he still felt slightly drunk. He lay down on the mattress, closed his eyes, and surrendered to the illusion of movement. Tiredness paralyzed his limbs and dragged on his thoughts. Was he sinking? A fleeting recognition of mental dissolution preceded his descent into sleep.
Once again he was standing on the deck of U-330, looking out over slow-moving water that had the consistency of an oil slick. Red light seeped over the horizon and the benighted ocean was dotted with small, flaring conflagrations. The raft appeared in the middle distance as a silhouette, revealed only momentarily by the fires in its locality. With each burst of illumination it materialized a little closer. Lorenz realized that he was dreaming but this did not lessen the pervasive sense of menace. His very soul seemed at risk. A rising panic made the dream unsustainable, and he found himself awake, his heart knocking against his ribs and his mouth sucking in air. It was as though he had surfaced after very nearly drowning. Although his body remained still, his eyes darted around his nook, piecing together reality: loudspeaker, leather panel, cabinet. His heartbeat slowed and he felt the tension flowing out of his limbs. Resting his hand on his sternum he released the air that he had been retaining in his lungs.
At the periphery of vision Lorenz registered something crossing the gap between the curtain and the edge of the recess. Its transition had caused a fractional dimming of the light. There had been no accompanying sound. Lorenz propped himself up and called out, ‘Hello?’ There was no response, so he called again. ‘Hello, who is it?’ The silence seemed to intensify.
Warily, he swung his legs off the mattress and pulled the curtain aside. He looked across the boat into the darkened radio room. The sense of danger he had experienced in the dream returned and the atmosphere became overcharged with a kind of electrostatic imminence. His sure knowledge that something was about to happen did not prevent him from flinching when a loud clanging noise sent a reverberation through the hull. Lorenz judged that its source was located in the forward torpedo room.
‘Schmidt?’ Lorenz called. ‘Krausse?’
Pressing down on his mattress, Lorenz stood up and began walking toward the bow. He stepped through the bulkhead hatchway and made his way down the gangway between the bunks. The lamp in the crew’s quarters emitted a weak yellow light but it was enough to illuminate the torpedo room. As soon as the tube doors came into view he was aware that something was not quite right. Advancing slowly, he saw that one of the upper tube doors was open and he was certain that it had been closed before. He reached out and checked the hinges, moving the door backward and forward. Perhaps someone had come on board and opened it while he had been asleep? The silence was dense and suffocating. Once again, he sensed imminence, a feeling of things being strained to an absolute limit. He heard a crack and the tinkling of broken glass.
Lorenz walked back toward the control room, and when he got as far as the officers’ mess he saw that the framed photograph of Vice Admiral Dönitz was askew. The glass had been smashed and the shatter pattern consisted of radial cracks emanating from a central point. A few shards had fallen onto the linoleum and reflected the light with unusual brilliance. Lorenz lifted the frame off its hook and pressed his hand against the wooden panelling. It was warm, but not exceptionally so. He placed the photograph on the table and proceeded to the control room where he waited in a state of alert, uneasy preparedness.
The sound that followed made his limbs go rigid, and a tingling sensation passed over his scalp. He could hear someone coming toward him from the empty compartment he had only just left: a slow, measured step. It crossed his mind that the phenomenon might be caused by a returning member of the repair team walking along the upper casing, but no sooner had this thought formed than he recognized it as yet another desperate attempt to cling to a remnant of a normality. There was a buzzing sound, the lamp flickered, and he was enveloped by darkness.
The footsteps were getting louder.
Lorenz remembered the vivid dream he had had of being attacked by Sutherland, hands closing around his throat, terrible weakness, and being unable to call for help — their noses almost touching. Was it prophetic? Had he been vouchsafed a preview of his own demise? He felt blindly for the chart table and then the locker above it. After opening the door he reached inside where, next to the sextant, his searching fingers discovered a flashlight.
Sliding the switch he was rewarded with a bright circle of light. He did not turn. The footsteps had stopped, and he found that he was unable to move. He remained perfectly still, facing the locker, but said with cold deliberation: ‘This is my boat—my command.’ Then, very slowly, he looked over his shoulder and aimed the flashlight-beam into the darkness. There was no one there. He moved his feet to ease the discomfort of his twisted waist and observed the circle of light warping as it passed over the uneven surfaces.
From the aft end of the boat there was another resonant clang. Lorenz immediately set off, marching briskly through the petty officers’ quarters and continuing into the diesel room. The stillness was particularly unnerving in this part of the boat because it was usually filled with the roar and clatter of the engines. He proceeded more cautiously but froze when the door behind him slammed shut. Suddenly, he felt in great danger, as if he had been lured into the diesel room for a specific purpose. He struggled to overcome an irrational conviction that he was entombed and that he would never feel the warmth of the sun’s rays again. Even more terrifying was the creeping conviction that he was not alone, that he was being closely studied. Richter claimed to have been pushed. A displacement of air chilled the back of Lorenz’s neck. Would he ‘slip’ and bang his head on a diesel engine too?