Two hundred and twenty meters…
Graf gestured at the manometer, awed by the boat’s resilience. The set of his jaw suggested a certain patriotic pride in what had been accomplished by the shipbuilders of Kiel.
Two hundred and forty meters…
There was a loud boom and a jolt raised Lorenz’s body off the rubber matting. Those who had managed to remain standing were knocked off their feet, and the men in the aft compartments started screaming. More glass shattered, the hull began to vibrate, and a terrible screeching started up. There were bangs, crashes, then a low rumbling. For an indeterminate time it felt like the keel was being dragged along a basin filled with rubble. When the boat came to a halt the lights flickered and went out.
The apprentice mechanic stopped crying for his mother and the screaming stopped.
Lorenz’s jacket was soaked through and cumbrous. He tried to stand but someone was crawling over his legs. There were yet more cries of ‘breach!’ and a single flashlight beam appeared. When the emergency lights came on he saw pipes hanging off the overhead, hand wheels on the deck, and members of the crew with blood on their faces. He stood up, peered through the cracked glass of the manometer and saw that the needle was stationary and pointing at a terrifying 260 meters. They were in the cellar, ten meters below the depth at which the pressure hull should have sagged and split open.
In spite of the devastation and the extraordinary danger they were in, order was quickly restored. Reports were delivered by pale, dazed men with sopping hair and torn shirts, and Graf went off to supervise the stopping of the breaches. Timbers appeared and wedges were cut as a preliminary measure. Gradually, the sound of the water jets subsided but a constant dripping and trickling served to remind them of their extreme vulnerability.
When Graf returned, Lorenz said, ‘Well?’
‘We’re very heavy,’ the engineer replied.
‘Then why aren’t the pumps going?’
‘They’re broken, Kaleun.’
‘Can they be repaired?’
‘I think so.’
‘What if we blew all of the buoyancy tanks?’
‘Some of them are sure to be damaged.’
Graf stepped through the aft bulwark and vanished into the petty officers’ quarters.
Lorenz sniffed the air and detected a distinctive, unwelcome smell. The batteries were leaking. Without batteries, the motors wouldn’t work, and without motors, the propellers wouldn’t turn. Schmidt was policing the crew, clapping his hands together and urging those who had been given jobs to work faster. Pullman — who had been standing by the engine telegraph — stepped toward Lorenz and said, ‘Can I help?’
‘There’s nothing you can do,’ said Lorenz. ‘Go to your bunk. Only those undertaking repairs should be up. We need to conserve oxygen.’
Pullman nodded but did not leave. ‘Where are we?’
Lorenz invited Müller to give the photographer an answer. The navigator picked up a chart, brushed off the excess fluid, and laid it out on the table. ‘I think we’ve come down on the longest mountain range in the world.’
‘What?’ said Pullman, dismayed.
‘The Mid-Atlantic ridge,’ said Müller, smoothing the wrinkled chart with the palm of his right hand. ‘It runs all the way from the southern hemisphere to the northern hemisphere, goes right up the middle of the Atlantic and rises out of the sea when it reaches Iceland. If we’d missed it we would have just kept going down. It saved us. You might not think so, but we’ve been very lucky.’
‘When your number’s up…’ said Falk.
Lorenz shook his head. ‘It was so… coordinated.’
‘What was?’ Müller asked.
‘The aircraft: one from behind, two from the front — a pincer movement!’ He illustrated his point by bringing his finger and thumb together. ‘It was as though they knew exactly where we were.’
‘Maybe they were lucky, too,’ said Müller.
‘Kaleun,’ said Pullman. ‘Before I retire to my bunk may I take some photographs? Such acts of heroism deserve to be recorded.’
‘Listen, Pullman,’ said Lorenz. ‘If I catch you trying to take a single photograph I’ll have you inserted into one the torpedo tubes. This isn’t a propaganda exercise.’
Pullman saluted and walked off, his boots splashing in water that still appeared to be rising.
Lorenz climbed through the forward hatchway and saw Reitlinger, Hoffmann’s replacement, and Martin, standing together and conferring anxiously. They had taken the cover off the battery and Reitlinger was holding a strip of litmus paper. It was obvious what had happened, the smell was enough, but Reitlinger still said: ‘Cracked cells. The acid is leaking.’ Sea water and sulphuric acid were combining to produce chlorine gas. Lorenz’s brief conversation with the electricians was interrupted by a steady flow of reports: fractured pipes, blown valves, unidentified breaches. The downward tilt of the boat had caused serious flooding in the torpedo room, and Kruger and Dressel were wading through water that had risen above their knees.
The crew appeared to be coping well, but Lorenz was not convinced by their stalwart industry. He was aware of too many small but reliable indicators of terror: crossed fingers, pulsing temples, trembling lower lips. Such signs betrayed what lay close to the surface. He sensed the threat of nervous breakdown — latent panic — the possibility of madness spreading through his boat — havoc, mayhem, anarchy.
Graf was rushing up and down the length of the boat, taking stock and issuing instructions. When he returned to the officers’ mess the table had been covered with blueprints. He spread them out, frantically making notes with a pencil and mumbling like a lunatic. His hair and beard were matted with oil, and he had stripped down to his vest. ‘Chief? Chief!’ Reitlinger attempted to capture Graf’s attention, but the engineer was far too engrossed. The word had to be repeated several times before Graf turned. Reitlinger spoke in a low, confidential tone that Lorenz was unable to hear. He saw Graf respond by rolling his eyes and entering several crosses in a row of boxes on the blueprint. They represented the battery cells. An earlier thought returned to Lorenz in the form of a mocking, playground chant: no cells, no batteries — no batteries, no motors — no motors, no screws — no screws, no movement. The fate of the boat and its crew was now entirely in the hands of the chief engineer.
Lorenz still had a role to play, but it was largely symbolic. The men would be studying him closely, looking for signs of weakness, and his outward composure would check their wayward emotions, calm the constantly simmering dread that might so very easily boil over and become hysteria. Lorenz ordered the control-room mate to fetch him a book from the library, and when Danzer returned he was clutching a damp, cloth-bound novel. ‘I’m sorry, Kaleun, all the books are wet. This is the best I could do.’ Danzer moved aside to let two men carrying buckets of limewash pass. Lorenz glanced at the spine: a popular naval adventure. ‘Good choice!’ He peeled the soggy pages apart and held the book up high so everybody could see that he was reading. In fact, he was staring at illegible words printed with smeared ink on cheap paper. He listened to the limewash being poured into the bilges to neutralize the battery acid.
In due course Graf was ready to give his final damage report: ‘The main bilge pump and auxiliary pumps are broken. The starboard diesel has been knocked completely off its mounts and the bolts have sheared. The port diesel is loose. The forward hydroplane is stuck. The housing of both batteries is severely damaged, and very few of the cells are serviceable. There are breaches in the torpedo room, control room, and diesel room. Several valves on the Christmas tree won’t open and the observation periscope is leaking. The gyroscopic compass—’