‘Kaleun?’
‘Did you—’ Lorenz stopped himself and started again. ‘Yes, yes… it’s difficult, I know.’ Glancing at the wall clock he noted that they had been submerged for sixteen hours.
Lorenz made his way toward the aft of the boat. In the petty officers’ quarters he found Falk checking that the sleepers were breathing through their ‘snorkels.’ The cook was in the galley, trying to save food that had gotten wet or covered in dirt. In the diesel room, the deck plates had been taken up and the heavy machinery beneath was fully exposed. Every surface had been covered with lubricating oiclass="underline" even the hull was slick and dripping. Fischer, the chief mechanic, was entirely black. The motor room had become a snakepit of tangled cables. Elsewhere, men were staggering around like drunkards, trying to accomplish difficult tasks while their organs and vessels became clogged with poisons. Time was running out.
On his way back to the officers’ mess Lorenz was stopped by Lehmann. The hyrdrophone operator handed him a pair of headphones. Lorenz placed them over his ears and listened. He could hear the distant rumble of depth charges.
‘Sounds like quite a battle,’ said Lorenz. ‘Are they coming our way?’
‘No,’ Lehmann replied, wiping saliva off his chin with his sleeve. ‘It isn’t getting any louder.’
Lorenz carried on listening. The acoustic changed, and he thought that he heard the constant, even rhythms of speech. Was it English? He focused on the faint perturbations in the hiss, but whatever he had identified as language was almost immediately drowned out by more explosions. Lorenz handed the earphones back to Lehmann, sat down in the officers’ mess, and pretended to read again.
Over twenty-four hours had passed. Lorenz was sitting with his head thrown back and his eyes closed, occupying a twilight state of consciousness somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. Nonsensical thoughts ran continuously through his mind and he was beginning to feel feverish. The clip on his nose had become extremely painful. He was tempted to rip it off but resisted the urge because he was obliged to lead by example. For some time he had been aware of a grinding sound, infiltrating his malaise, a sound that he had only identified as a nonspecific background irritation, something preventing him from obtaining restorative sleep. Then it occurred to him that this sound, this familiar periodicity, was actually very significant, and he forced his eyelids open. He saw Graf swaying on the opposite side of the table, ragged, filthy, his ‘snorkel’ tucked behind the cartridge strap. The engineer steadied himself and started speaking in a hoarse, cracked voice. ‘We’ve pumped out most of the water. The batteries are working: we bridged the cells. The motors are ready. The forward hydroplane is ready — I think. Of course, we won’t know for sure until we start moving. The diesels are secured and ready. The gyroscopic compass is ready.’ Graf continued his lengthy recitation of accomplishments, and at its conclusion he fell backward. Falk caught him and raised him up again. Lorenz stood, his eyes glistening with emotion. ‘What took you so long?’ He squeezed out from behind the table, straightened his cap, and made his way directly to the control room where he switched on the public-address system. ‘Well, before we left I said that a crew is only ever as good as its captain, but sometimes a captain is only ever as good as his crew. Prepare to surface.’ A mournful, strangulated chorus served in lieu of a cheer.
The crew made valiant efforts to conceal their shattered nerves. Juhl had assembled the watch, Müller was poring over charts, and Graf was standing at his customary post behind the hydroplane operators. The community of fate was beginning to repair itself. All of them, without exception, looked weary and haggard.
‘Blow the tanks,’ said Lorenz — angry, defiant — as if issuing a personal challenge to the forces of destiny.
Valves were opened and compressed air hissed. All eyes were on the motionless manometer needle. Lorenz was forced to consider again the enormous weight of water pressing down on the hull, the tiny mathematical margins that would determine whether they all lived or died. The hissing continued but the needle remained fixed. A scraping noise came up through the underside of the casing, there were groans, screeches, and a shrill whistle that became intermittent like Morse code. Everything began to shake and rattle, and a shard of glass that hadn’t been removed from one of the damaged dials dropped and shattered. Finally, the boat started to rock. The bow was rising and it continued to rise until the deck was horizontal. Further increments angled the boat upward. There was more scraping, which stopped abruptly and allowed the hum of the electric motors to be heard. The manometer needle trembled and jerked back.
‘Let’s get off this rock pile,’ said Lorenz.
Two hundred and fifty-five meters, two hundred and fifty meters, two hundred and forty meters…
The ascent was slow and the stressed frame of the boat continued to complain. A minor breach had to be plugged at 190 meters, but the boat maintained its smooth upward climb without further incident. At fifty meters Lorenz consulted Lehmann. The hydrophones were still silent.
Forty meters, thirty meters, fifteen meters…
The observation periscope was raised. It was safe to surface.
‘Tower clear!’ Graf cried.
Lorenz climbed the ladder and opened the hatch. The cold, clean air burned his throat and seared his lungs; its frigid purity was almost intolerable. He felt dizzy, slightly delirious. The diesels started and released a cloud of black smoke. ‘Quickly,’ he said to the watchmen. ‘Get into position — concentrate. That was all very diverting but now it’s back to work.’
The weather conditions were much the same as they were when they had been attacked: intimidating clouds over a roughcast sea. It was as though their ordeal had happened out of time. He imagined the great mountain range 260 meters below the soles of his boots, its pinnacles and dark spaces — and shivered.
‘Permission to come up.’ It was Pullman.
‘Granted.’ Lorenz was feeling magnanimous.
The photographer appeared with his camera. He looked fragile, shaken, and less assured. ‘May I?’ he said, raising the lens.
‘If you must,’ said Lorenz. ‘But I can’t help feeling that I’m not looking my best.’
10.13 Two aircraft sighted. Alarm.
11.00 Mist, light swell. The after starboard lookout has reported a faint shadow at 10° on the port quarter. We alter course and travel toward it at ¾ speed.
11.40 We sail ahead of shadow, our intention being to intercept later.
11.45 To the west and south the horizon is overcast whereas to the north and east it is bright. Average visibility, 5–8 nm. Gradually it becomes clear that the shadow is the conning tower of a submarine; however, it is impossible to establish type.
12.13 The submarine alters course hard a-port.
12.30 We dive as it is too light for a surface attack.
12.50 Through the periscope the submarine is identified: British T-class. Bearing 340° true. Course 220°, speed 10 knots, range 2,000 m. We alter course hard a-port to 270° and proceed at ¾ speed. The mist thickens. Contact lost.
13.15 The hydrophone operator reports propeller noises at 320°. Enemy reappears, proceeding 60°, passing at a high speed, range of 200 m on our port beam. We alter course hard a-starboard to 60°. Port engine at ¾ speed. There are three watch men all of whom are looking away to port but without binoculars. No watch men on the starboard side. We prepare to fire, but the enemy submarine then turns about 150 m ahead of us and withdraws at an inclination of 180°.
13.37 We alter course to 90°. Port engine dead slow, periscope depth. The enemy submarine appears to be patrolling along a NE — SW course line. We will wait for it to return.