Go In and Sink! (8 page)

‘Test fore and aft planes, Number One.’

Again he watched them, moving from rise to dive positions before returning to the horizontal trim. Beyond the periscope he caught a glimpse of a young stoker. Watching him like a mesmerised rabbit. He gave him a brief smile but the youth showed no change of expression.

He glanced around the control room again. It looked comfortingly warm in the glowing lights, the jerseys of the occupants still unsoiled by grease or dirt.

‘Hydroplanes tested and found correct, sir.’

‘Ready, Chief?’ He saw Frenzel nod.

He turned back to the periscope. The moment had come.
How
quiet it was now that the diesels’ heat had given way to the electric motors. Restful almost.

‘Group up. Slow ahead together. Open main vents. Take her down to fourteen metres!’

He concentrated his gaze on the foreplanes as they tilted downwards like fins. They were easy to see against the frothing bow wave. It was a fascinating sight and never failed to excite him. The bow dropping, the sea surging up the casing towards him while the deck tilted below his feet. The casing had gone now, and he saw spray leaping at him. so that as always he was tempted to hold his breath as if to avoid drowning. A distorted but silent sea, engulfing all of them, as the boat continued to dive.

‘Down periscope.’

He stood back, bracing his body as he looked quickly over the depth gauges and hydroplane tell-tales. Gerrard was doing well. Nice and smooth. He watched the big needle edging round, steadying.

‘Fourteen metres, sir. Periscope depth,’ Gerrard sounded hoarse.

‘Up periscope.’

Again a quick circling inspection. No sign of
Lima
, but he could hear her ragged engine beat without difficulty.

‘Down periscope.’ He clapped home the handles.

‘Twenty metres.’

He waited, hearing the crackle of reports over the intercom and voicepipes as sections contacted the control room, half-listening to the ping of the echo-sounder, the smooth purr of motors.

Gerrard said, ‘Twenty metres, sir.’ He wiped his face with his forearm. ‘No reports of leaks.’

Devereaux remarked casually, ‘
That’s
good news.’

Nobody replied.

They maintained the same depth and speed for the prescribed half hour. The hull felt as steady as a barrack square, and the reports from the various departments were equally encouraging.

Marshall said at length, ‘Stand by to surface. We will signal
Lima
that all’s well and then lay off our new course, surfaced.’

Gerrard said, ‘She seems fine.’

Marshall nodded. ‘We will dive before first light. Make sure all the watchkeepers know the standing orders
thoroughly
. They’ll not get a second chance.’

He looked at the men around him. ‘We are in business.’ He smiled gravely at their mixed expressions. ‘Under entirely new management!’

Marshall opened his eyes and stared for several seconds at the curved deckhead above his bunk. He knew immediately by the background of silence that the submarine was still dived, that breakfast had not yet begun. His reading light was on, and he realised he must have fallen into a deep sleep, and saw his notebook lying across the blankets. There was no gap between sleeping and being awake, his past experiences had done away with such luxury. But as he stared at the curved steel overhead he was aware that the sight no longer confused or surprised him. They had been at sea for eight days, and you got used to a lot in that time.

He looked at his watch. It was six in the morning. Since leaving the loch they had spent most days submerged and every night running on the surface, charging batteries
and
checking the inflow of signals which filled the darkness with the affairs of war.

In eight days he had got to know a lot about his command and her new role. While they had driven westwards into the Atlantic, avoiding the main convoy routes and watching for friend and foe alike, he had gone over his intelligence pack again and again. Browning’s staff had done a good job in translating the German logs and codes, and he knew almost as much about U-192’s previous life as his own. She had been based in the French port of Lorient and had been employed in the Atlantic against Allied shipping for the whole of her lifetime. Then, needing a big refit, she had returned to her real home, Kiel. There she had been overhauled and her crew scattered to other, unseasoned boats, new from the shipyards. The pattern was almost exactly like his own. Like
Tristram
, U-192 had been ordered to sail on an independent patrol, to work her company into a proper team on actual operations. Afterwards, if she survived, she would return to Lorient and rejoin her old consorts. Again the similarity was very clear. For although her crew had been mixed and only partly trained, she had an experienced and hardened captain and first lieutenant. It was almost unnerving.

He twisted his head to look at the German cap which hung behind his door. The one he might have to wear if every other ruse failed. It had a white top, the mark of a U-boat commander. He had tried it on just the once. The effect had been startling.

He licked his lips, tasting the diesel in his throat. It was a pity they had been made to dive overnight, but safety came first. The submarine was now about a thousand miles south of Cape Farewell, Greenland and a similar distance east of Newfoundland. Out here the enemy was
not
only made up of men. There could be ice about, and it was best to run deep and avoid the risk.

Feet padded past his cabin and he thought he heard the clink of cups. Breakfast. The one real occasion when he faced most of his officers at once.

The passage to the first rendezvous area had been busy for all of them. All the usual teething troubles. Faulty valves and inexplicable failures in wiring which had to be traced with the aid of Warwick or one of the telegraphists to translate the German handbooks.

After the first day or so many of the company seemed to get overconfident. It must have been a strange experience for everyone. Dodging their own patrols, diving whenever an aircraft was heard or sighted. It gave an air of
cloak-and-dagger
which helped to mask the grim reality of their mission.

Being forced inwards on their resources was bound to have effects, too. Small irritations grew into open arguments. A man who was minutes late on watch was met with something like hatred by the one he was relieving. It was as unreasonable as it was natural. Only when they had something from without to test them would they finally draw together as a unit, irritations or not.

There had been a quick spark of anger between Gerrard and Devereaux, for instance, which he had quickly quenched. It had started because of something he had done himself. Three days out from the loch the weather had moderated, the Atlantic smoothing its grey face to a long succession of humped rollers. Marshall had decided on a deep practice dive, something they had not yet done together. It was always a tense moment in any boat, let alone this one.

Three hundred and fifty feet. It was nothing like the
depth
the boat was built to withstand, but you always felt uneasy. As they had sunk deeper and deeper, with Frenzel and his E.R.A’s creeping about the hull in search of faults and leaks, several men must have considered the fact that the boat’s skin was less than an inch thick.

Gerrard had handled deep dives in
Tristram
on many occasions, and had been busy with his slide-rule and calculations before the actual moment of taking her down. Each hour of the day the boats trim had to be watched and checked. As fuel was consumed the weight had to be compensated. Food and fresh water, even the movement of large numbers of men at any one time, such as going to diving stations, had to be allowed for. A bad first lieutenant had been known to let his submarine’s bows flounder above the surface at the moment of firing torpedoes, merely because he had not compensated for their sudden loss of weight.

Every so often there had been a sharp squeak or groan, with attendant gasps from the inexperienced men aboard. For even at a mere one hundred feet there was a weight of twenty-five tons of water on every square yard of the hull.

As the depth gauges had steadied on one hundred and five metres Gerrard had asked, ‘Shall I take her up again, sir?’

Devereaux had remarked, ‘Getting worried, Number One? I
am
surprised!’

For those brief seconds Marshall had seen the hostility between them. Maybe Devereaux had expected the appointment of first lieutenant, especially as he had been in the U-boat since her capture. And perhaps Gerrard really was rattled after his last commission in the Med. Either would be easy to explain.

He had said calmly, ‘Check all sections.’ He had waited, listening to the negative reports flooding through the intercom. The Kiel dockyard workers had done a good job. Right at that moment there was a total weight impinging the pressure hull of some 80,000 tons, the displacement of the
Queen Mary
.

But it had not settled anything. Everyone had to trust him and the boat. Know that together they could survive. Also he had needed to fracture that barrier between his two lieutenants as they eyed each other like strangers.

He had snapped, ‘Three hundred and eighty feet, Number One.’

Gerrard had nodded jerkily. ‘Very good, sir.’

More groans, and a few flakes of paint which had drifted down like snow as the hull had taken the strain. As she levelled off Marshall had made another comparison. The surface was now the height of St. Paul’s Cathedral above their heads. Nothing happened, and when Frenzel had ducked through the after bulkhead he was quite satisfied with both hull and machinery.

Marshall had said to the control room at large, ‘Now we all know.’

But if it had given the company more confidence, it had done little to ease the tension between Gerrard and the navigator.

Churchill opened the door and stepped gingerly into the cabin.

‘’Mornin’, sir.’ He placed a cup of coffee beside the bunk. ‘You want to shave today?’

Marshall sighed and stretched his limbs. Encased in heavy jersey and stained sea-boots, he would have given anything for a hot bath, a shave and a change of clothes. But outward-bound it was too wasteful.

‘Just coffee. How are things?’

Churchill rubbed his chin, ‘All quiet, sir. Nice’n steady. Twenty metres when I come through the control room. Let’s see now, ’ow much is that in
feet
?’

Marshall grinned. ‘Sixty-five. You’ll soon get the hang of it.’

Churchill moved away. ‘Why can’t the bloody Jerries use civilised measurements like wot we does?’

Marshall let the coffee explore his stomach. That at least was better than the previous owners had had, he thought.

‘Captain in the control room!’

He was off the bunk and running the short length of passageway before the cup had rolled across the cabin floor.

Buck was officer of the watch, his pointed features anxious as he said, ‘The hydroplane operator reported propeller noises at Green four-five sir. Very faint. Lost it almost immediately.’

Marshall brushed past him and leaned over the operator who was crouching in his little compartment like a man at prayer. He tapped him gently on the shoulder.

‘What d’you think, Speke?’

The leading seaman leaned back and moved one ear-phone aside.

‘I’m not sure, sir. It was just a blur. Thought it was a shoal of fish for a minute.’

Marshall looked at Buck. ‘Sound the klaxon.’ He saw the lietuenant’s eyes sharpen. ‘Jump about!’

The scream of the klaxon brought the off-watch men charging to their stations. Gerrard, paler than ever, arrived panting in the control room, his thin body bowed below the overhead pipes and valves.

‘All closed up at diving stations, sir,’ Starkie sat loosely in his steel chair, his fingers easing the brass spokes of the wheel, giving no sign that he had been fast asleep thirty seconds earlier.

Marshall looked at his watch. It would be daylight of a sort.

‘Stop the fans. Absolute silence throughout the boat!’

Gerrard asked quietly, ‘What do you think, sir?’

He shook his head. ‘Could be mistaken. But we’ll take a look.’

Gerrard nodded. ‘Periscope depth.’

Marshall crouched beside the periscope, listening as the compressed air pounded steadily into the saddle tanks.
Easy. Don’t take her up too fast
.

He snapped, ‘Raise the periscope.’ He held out one hand. ‘
Slowly!
’

He crouched right down, almost on his knees, flipping open the twin handles as the periscope slid gently from the well. It felt warm, as indeed it was, to prevent the lenses from misting over.

‘Easy!’

He saw the glimmer of grey through the lens, the froth of bubbles as it cut above the surface.

‘Periscope depth, sir.’ Gerrard’s voice was a whisper.

Crablike, Marshall edged round the well, blinking as the spray doused the lens. Nothing.

‘Raise it completely.’

He straightened his body with it, feeling the others watching his face, hearing them murmur as he halted his slow inspection.