A metallic groan increased in volume until it became a horrible yowl. The sound conjured up images of torment, medieval depictions of writhing bodies and winged devils. Then, a jet of water spurted horizontally from a point above the hydroplane operators. It was so powerful that it crossed most of the control room before curving downward to hit the matting.
Several voices screamed in unison, ‘Breach!’
‘I’ll deal with it.’ The control room mate leaped up and with the assistance of Müller, they endeavored to repair the rupture.
Before calm had been restored a diesel-hand appeared. ‘Herr Kaleun, air valve leaking badly.’
Lorenz looked at Graf. ‘What’s happening? It feels like we’re in the cellar.’ The cellar was the term that they used to describe depths below 250 meters; depths at which the metal casing between the armored sections of the boat would buckle.
Two thin sprays discharged into the atmosphere. The air misted, and halos appeared around the lights. Graf found the source and beckoned Richter. ‘Secure this rivet — quick as you can. If it shoots out it’ll travel faster than a bullet.’
Another shout from astern: ‘Breach in the diesel room.’
Lorenz struck the conning tower ladder with his fist and swore. ‘Shit.’
The pointer of the manometer was quivering slightly. Lorenz leaned closer and, reaching out, tapped the glass with his finger. It was an action that resonated with a distant memory of his grandfather. The old fellow had been in the habit of coaxing a sluggish barometer into life by employing the same technique — a dial mounted on carved wood, a brass rim that had blackened with age — Lorenz could remember the object in minute detail.
The quivering pointer suddenly jumped.
One hundred and fifteen…
Yet, the boat clearly wasn’t sinking.
‘Fuck,’ said Graf. ‘The pointer must have been stuck.’
They looked on in horror as their actual depth was revealed.
One hundred and twenty, one hundred and thirty meters…
The pointer on the dial face moved from the orange arc into the red.
One hundred and eighty meters, one hundred and ninety meters…
An eternity seemed to elapse before the pointer finally came to rest at 210 meters — well over twice the depth of the shipyard’s safety guarantee.
Lorenz was surrounded by bloodless faces, waxy death masks floating in space. They were all thinking the same thing: so much water above them, so much weight. One of the men was nervously clawing at his skin, and another had developed a tic. Yet, none of those gathered around the manometer lost control. The veneer of competence and firmness of purpose did not fracture. Vice Admiral Dönitz’s dictum had been drummed into them: the men of a U-boat crew were a ‘community of fate’—their lives were in each other’s hands.
Joint responsibility strengthened their determination, but every commander understood that indoctrination, even when thorough, could not prohibit fear indefinitely. There would always be a breaking point.
‘Prepare to surface,’ said Lorenz.
The watch reassembled beneath the tower. Graf issued instructions to the hydroplane operators, and compressed air was released into the buoyancy tanks. The manometer pointer remained fixed at 210 meters. ‘Come on!’ Lorenz growled. He rapped his knuckle against the glass. Metal moaned and the hull shivered. Every member of the crew was willing the boat to rise. The manometer pointer started to move, so slowly at first that its progress was barely discernible.
One hundred and eighty-five, One hundred and eighty…
The men in the control room closed their eyes and sighed with relief, and those among them who believed in a watchful intercessory God offered silent thanks.
Lorenz grinned at Graf.
The chief engineer frowned and said, ‘We’re not there yet, Kaleun.’ His forehead was glistening with perspiration.
‘Ever the optimist,’ Lorenz replied. ‘Take her up to forty-five meters.’ He ordered the helmsman to zigzag at this depth before calling out, ‘Twenty-five.’ Then, Lorenz swung through the fore bulkhead hatchway and crouched outside the sound room. Lehmann was turning his hand wheel this way, then that, and listening intently through his headphones. He was leaning forward, eyes raised, as if he could see through the overhead and all the way to the surface. This looking heavenward might have suggested religious transport, but his gaunt features were lit from below, producing a rather sinister, ghoulish effect.
‘Can you hear anything?’ asked Lorenz.
‘No,’ Lehmann replied, ‘nothing at all.’
‘Good.’ Lorenz returned to the control room through the hatchway and called out, ‘Periscope depth.’ Graf reduced speed to minimize vibrations, and Lorenz sat on the periscope saddle. He unfolded the hand grips, closed his left eye, and pressed the orbit of his right eye against the rubber circlet of the ocular lens. After adjusting the magnification and the angle of the mirror he studied the dark bands of clouds. The sky vanished as the periscope dipped beneath the surface. ‘Depth-keeping, please,’ said Lorenz, mildly irritated. Graf apologized, and a few moments later the top of the periscope cleared the waves once again. Visibility could have been better, but Lorenz was fairly confident that the aircraft had gone. ‘We live to fight another day. Surface!’ Over the hissing of compressed air the crew began conversing normally. ‘Equalize pressure,’ said Graf. ‘Man the bilge pumps.’ The dispersal of tension was the cause of much hysterical laughter. Eventually, the sea could be heard outside and the diesel engines were engaged. Lorenz ascended the conning tower ladder and opened the hatch. Fresh air poured into the boat, dispelling the stink of fear. He could hear Juhl coming up behind him, singing ‘Embrasse-moi.’
When the boat was back on course, and all the routine procedures restored, Lorenz summoned Graf: ‘Well? What are we going to do about that manometer?’
‘I’ll check it, Kaleun,’ said the chief engineer.
‘Yes,’ said Lorenz, ‘I think you’d better.’
Later, Lorenz retired to his nook. The entry he made in his war diary was telegraphic and devoid of drama: ‘15.35 Attacked by aircraft. Four depth charges. Minor damage.’ He lay back on the mattress and remembered the lights going out in the control room, the hand landing heavily on his shoulder. Another sensation had registered at the time, but since then he’d been far too distracted to think about it. Now he closed his eyes and recreated the moment, acknowledging a host of memories that had hitherto been competing for attention among the marginalia of consciousness. The hand had been cold. He had felt frozen tendrils taking root in his flesh and curling around his bones, and the coldness had intensified as the long fingers tensed.
The peculiarity of the memory made him doubt its fidelity. It was common knowledge that the brain was an unreliable record-keeper in extreme situations. Everything could become sharp and hard-edged or distant and dreamlike. He pieced together a reassuring scenario: in the darkness one of the crew had mistakenly laid a hand on his shoulder, and the coldness of Lorenz’s own fear had become localized at the point of contact. Realizing his mistake, the embarrassed crewman, most probably Krausse, had slipped away before the emergency lights had come on. Yes, Lorenz thought. He snapped the war diary shut. That’s it. That’s what must have happened. Yet he wasn’t wholly persuaded, and a feeling of unease persisted.
The swell was high and the boat rolled. Two books tumbled onto the rubber matting and the chart chest slipped a few inches. Through the circle of the open hatch it was possible to see black clouds. Howling squalls were accompanied by a rattling assault of hailstones. Lorenz lurched down the gangway to the officers’ mess where he found Falk and Graf. Falk was serving potato soup from a tureen suspended above the table. It was impossible to ladle the thin gruel into the bowls without spilling any. The grey liquid collected in wide pools, and when the boat heeled it flowed under the rails and slopped onto the officers’ laps. None of them reacted.