14.00 Mist thickens again. We lose sight of enemy. Course 80°. Inclination 180°.
14.20 Bright, but cloudy. Light swell from the SW. Enemy in sight once again.
14.27 We prepare a single shot from tube I. The bow cap does not open.
14.35 We prepare a single shot from tube III. Torpedo speed set 30 knots, depth 10 m, enemy speed 8 knots, inclination 35°, bows left, range 600 m. Inclination now automatically updated by computer.
14.40 Enemy steers a straight course. I order the boat hard a-port, starboard engine ¾ speed. Enemy course 215°. We pull ahead of the enemy in order to keep the parallax angle small.
14.44 Just before firing we enter new data for enemy speed of 5 knots. Range 500 m.
14.46 Tube III fire! Enemy speed 5 knots, inclination 70°, bows left, range 500 m, aim-off angle 8.7°. No aim-off adjustment required as enemy speed is slow. We keep the rudder hard a-port so that the enemy bearing is always 350°–10° ahead. After a running time of 34.7 seconds (= 520 m) a detonation. We feel the shock wave. A huge explosion can be seen with pieces of wreckage rising into the air. There is nothing more. Only a large patch of oil and air bubbles.
15.02 We retire, steering course 90°. Port engine dead slow.
15.04 I shall not complain, though I now founder, And perish in watery depths! Nevermore shall my gaze be cheered, By the sight of my love’s star (Better not type this, Ziegler — the Lion doesn’t like Ludwig Tieck. ‘Despair’—a beautiful poem. The last words are ‘I am a lost man.’ We are all lost men — sooner or later.)
Every member of the crew had become preoccupied and inward-looking. They only spoke to each other out of necessity, and when they did, their voices were hushed. The fact that the vessel they had just destroyed was a submarine magnified the usual considerations. Yes, they were British, but in all probability they were no different to themselves, with similar hopes and fears, doing their duty, obeying orders. The logical endpoint of such thinking was a meditation on personal vulnerability and the likelihood of meeting the same fate, a conclusion that was reinforced by superstitious propensities (an eye for an eye, a submarine for a submarine) and a belief in arcane laws that preserved primitive forms of natural justice.
Lorenz was seated in his nook. He had been observing Lehmann, who was listening out for enemy vessels. The hydrophone operator looked particularly troubled. His face seemed to be caving in, his cheeks were sunken, and the skin beneath his eyes had sagged and darkened. Occasionally he would stop turning his wheel and just stare at the dial. It was obvious he wasn’t registering the figures, but rather focusing on something that existed only in his imagination. Lorenz got up and walked across the gangway. As he approached, Lehmann turned. ‘Kaleun?’ The hydrophone operator knocked one of the headphones back exposing his left ear. Lorenz spoke in a hushed, confidential whisper. ‘What is it, Lehmann?’
‘What is it?’ Lehmann repeated, confused.
‘Yes. Something is bothering you.’
Lehmann sighed. ‘I was listening after the torpedo detonated.’
‘And…?’
‘I heard them.’
‘Who?’
‘The British. Their screams.’
‘That’s not possible.’
‘It wasn’t for very long, just a few seconds.’
‘No. You think you heard their screams.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘You have to remember, Lehmann, if the tables were turned…’
‘I know, sir. It’s just…’
‘Unpleasant. Indeed.’
Pullman had been working on some of the younger members of the crew. He had sensed the change of atmosphere, their need for reassurance, comforting certainties, and he had seized the opportunity to preach his gospel. In the forward compartment, he was seated on a lower bunk, reading to Berger and Wesseclass="underline" ‘Everything on this earth is capable of improvement. Every defeat can become the father of a subsequent victory, every lost war the cause of a later resurgence, every hardship the fertilization of human energy, and from every oppression the forces for a new spiritual rebirth can come as long as the blood is preserved pure.’ Pullman gazed at his disciples and offered them his durable half-smile. ‘The lost purity of the blood alone destroys inner happiness forever, plunges man into the abyss for all time, and the consequences can nevermore be eliminated from body and spirit.’
Lorenz moved through the compartment and Pullman lowered his book. ‘The words of the Führer.’
‘I know,’ Lorenz replied.
‘They are uplifting, don’t you think, sir?’ Lorenz ignored the question, and Pullman added, ‘A corrective for…’ his smile widened, ‘defeatism.’
Lorenz detected a hint of criticism behind Pullman’s missionary zeal.
‘I’m sorry?’ He glared at Pullman who shifted nervously.
‘I was merely saying…’ The sentence trailed off and the photographer cleared his throat. ‘I was merely saying that there is solace in the Führer’s counsel — hope, encouragement.’
Lorenz put his hands together around his mouth and shouted, ‘Ziegler?’
The radio operator stepped through the doorway. ‘Herr Kaleun?’
‘Did any of the records survive?’
‘Only a few: Glenn Miller — Wagner Overtures.’
‘Put the Glenn Miller on, will you? And play it loud.’ Without looking at Pullman he carried on walking between the bunks to the torpedo room. Graf was standing with the torpedo men.
‘Don’t tell me. You can’t find anything wrong with Tube One.’
Graf shook his head. ‘There are no faults.’
‘The bow cap was being what then? Temperamental?’
‘Just one of those things,’ said Graf.
‘Why did I know you were going to say that?’
The sound of the Glenn Miller band started up, the slippery clarinets answered by muted brass, and beneath, the steady, strolling bass. Graf leaned toward Lorenz, tilted his head to one side to emphasize the music, and said, ‘Was that wise, Herr Kaleun?’
‘No,’ Lorenz replied with evident pride.
Ziegler was changing the dressing on Peters’s hand. A number of men had sustained injuries when the boat had been bombed, and it was fortunate that none of these had proven serious. Zeigler pulled at the bloodstained bandages and Peters swore.
‘Be careful, that hurt.’
Schmidt was also waiting to have a dressing changed. ‘Don’t be a girl, Peters.’
‘I’m telling you, it fucking hurt.’
Ziegler smeared some cod liver oil ointment over the exposed cut.
‘Hurt?’ said Schmidt. ‘You haven’t got a clue, have you? When I was a boy I ran away and went to sea on a merchant steamer. God, what a rust bucket! Leaked like a sieve. Anyway, we’d just left this stinking port on the west coast of Africa and the boiler exploded. The stokers flew out of the engine room like demons out of hell but someone was still down there, shouting and screaming — trapped. The Portuguese captain paid no attention. I asked him if we shouldn’t go down and help the man, but he brushed me aside and started to organize the lifeboats. The Chief Engineer was just the same. “It’s only a black,” he said. “We need to get off right now, without delay.” Cowards, I thought. Cowards! So, I climbed down to the engine room on my own, and there was this big black stoker with his foot stuck beneath a girder. Well, I tried to lift it, but I couldn’t. The thing weighed a ton. The ship was going down fast and the water was rising. What was I to do? I spotted a big iron coal shovel, held it over the stoker’s foot and nodded. “Do you want me to? Yes?” He nodded back, as if to say: Go on then, it’s my only chance. And with a downward strike I sliced his foot right off. Then I put him over my shoulder and carried him up onto the deck. I tell you, Peters, he didn’t make a sound.’