Night Sky (74 page)

If the fishing boat was holding her course, why the devil hadn’t they seen her yet?

U-319 was zigzagging four miles either side of the prey’s projected track. The visibility was still good. Using the search periscope they should be able to spot even a small boat at four miles. She must have masts and sails which should be clearly visible against the skyline.

Even allowing for the worst: for U-319 speeding away from the approaching prey on the wrong leg of the zig-zag, and for the fishing boat being as much as four miles off course, they should still see her on the return leg because of their superior speed and because each leg of the zigzag took them very slightly forward along the fishing boat’s track.

They should have seen her, but they hadn’t.

Fischer sighed deeply and chucked the pencil down on to the chart.

The control room was quiet except for the gentle hum of the electric motors. The men were at their positions, silent except for the occasional whisper, engrossed in their jobs. The man at the periscope was swivelling slowly, his eyes fixed to the lens.

Fischer wondered how long it had been since he’d slept. He thought for a moment and decided that his last proper sleep must have been over thirty hours ago. He’d tried to sleep early that morning, but had managed only a short doze.

He should try to snatch some rest now but he knew he wouldn’t be able to. Not yet. Not while the hunt was on.

Once darkness fell – once they’d missed the boat for certain – then he’d sleep. During the night there was nothing they could do; they had no way of hunting a small boat under cover of darkness. All he could do would be to manoeuvre U-319 into a position ahead of the fishing boat and lie in wait for it at dawn. By then the margin for error would be enormous – the prey might have changed course a dozen times. The chances would be slim.

A needle in a haystack …

Men were moving around the control room, changing places, whispering in muted voices. The watch change. 1600 hours.

He was tempted to go to the periscope and take a look, but decided against it. A man from the new watch was just settling in. When the fellow finished his first trick at the periscope in about fifteen minutes, perhaps then he’d take a look. It was partly superstition: Fischer had the feeling that, by restraining himself from looking, the fishing boat was more likely to turn up. Ridiculous, of course …

Fischer wandered aft, towards the engine room. The Chief spotted him and, wiping his hands on an oily rag, made his way between the massive diesels to meet his commander.

Suddenly there was a muffled exclamation, the sound of voices from the direction of the control room. Fischer froze for a moment then, turning quickly, retraced his steps. Even as he turned he was thinking: No klaxon – not an aircraft. What then?

The first officer was at the periscope. ‘… bearing 280!’

Fischer strode up and tapped him on the shoulder. The first officer stood aside. ‘A small craft, Herr Kaleu!’ Fischer put his eye to the lens.

For a moment he could see nothing, just seas, larger than before. He checked the bearing – 280 degrees – and waited. A wave rose in front of the horizon then fell again.

There!

Fischer felt the adrenalin leap into his veins.

‘Raise attack periscope!’

There was a hiss of hydraulics as the much larger attack periscope rose from the bowels of the boat. The search periscope had a wide field of vision, covering large areas of the sky as well as the sea, but had limited powers of magnification; the attack periscope, on the other hand, had a small field of vision but much greater magnification. Fischer pulled down the handles and, swinging the periscope round, put his eye to it.

Greatly magnified waves obscured the horizon. He waited. They fell away.

There she was!

A small boat. Under sail.

The silhouette was unmistakable, even from this distance. He guessed the range to be over four miles. He could see almost nothing of the hull – it was hidden among the waves – but the mainsail showed black and distinct, a tiny curved shape against the brilliant yellow of the western sky.

The boat was sailing north.

He allowed himself a moment of satisfaction, then let his natural caution take charge. It might be a British fishing boat … But unlikely in mid-Channel. It might be another escaped French fishing boat – equally unlikely. The coincidences of time and position were too great.

It
had
to be the prey.

Next – how to capture them. He’d have to approach submerged, then surface at the last minute. That way the occupants wouldn’t have time to think about fighting. He wanted to avoid fighting, not only because he’d been told to bring back the occupants unharmed, but because the operation had to be completed in the shortest possible time, to avoid being caught on the surface.

He hated the idea of surfacing in broad daylight, particularly here. But it would have to be done.

Automatically he began to swing the periscope round, walking with it in a circle, sweeping the narrow band either side of the horizon. No ships. He couldn’t see much of the sky, not with this periscope.

He stood back and let the first officer take a look.

It was time to close in. ‘Alter course to—’

He broke off. Something was wrong: he identified it. The bloody stupid man on the search periscope wasn’t swivelling it round, wasn’t searching! Fischer felt a surge of anger.

‘
Sweep!
Sweep the sky! Come on!’

The man glanced up, looked shaken, and rapidly spun the periscope.

Fischer clenched his fists. Bloody fool. That was the way to get caught. An aircraft could spot the wake of the two periscopes at a hell of a distance. But Fischer knew the sailor at the periscope: normally he was a good man. He decided to let the matter pass.

Now, the order to alter course.

A sharp cry, half-shout, half-scream, rent the air.

‘
Enemy aircraft!
’

In reflex Fischer shouted, ‘
Down periscopes!
’

The two shafts began to hiss downwards.

‘
Take her down! Alter course forty-five degrees to starboard!
’

The order was repeated.

Fischer had no idea whether the plane had been close, whether it was even making a bombing run, but he wasn’t going to take any chances. He strode to the chart and looked at the depth of the water here. He barked, ‘Take her down to thirty metres!’

After what seemed a long, long time but which was only a couple of seconds the submarine began to react to the re-angled hydroplanes and her nose tilted downwards. Slowly, peacefully, the boat slipped further and further down into the depths.

Everyone tensed and reached out for a handhold, waiting for the shock of the depth charges.

The silence lasted a long, long time.

The voice of the coxswain sounded calmly through the stillness. ‘Depth fifteen metres … eighteen metres … twenty metres …’

‘Alter course another forty-five degrees to starboard.’

‘Altering course forty-five degrees starboard, Herr Kaleu.’

At last it came. ‘Depth thirty metres.’

Fischer exhaled. The men shifted their weight and exchanged glances. No depth charges. They were safe.

‘You!’ Fischer barked at the sailor who’d been manning the search periscope.

The man approached, ashen white.

‘Bearing and range of enemy plane?’

The man gulped. Fischer noticed that he was shaking like a leaf.

‘
Bearing and range of enemy plane?
’

The man’s mouth was gaping slightly and he glanced around like a frightened rabbit. Fischer raised his hand and quite deliberately slapped the sailor’s face. The man fell back in surprise. For a moment Fischer thought he was going to cry.

Fischer repeated more quietly, ‘Bearing and range of enemy plane.’

The man’s eyes cleared. ‘Behind us, Herr Kaleu,’ he began breathlessly. ‘No – slightly to starboard. Bearing about … I … I’m not sure.’ He was shaking again.

Fischer said sharply, ‘But a British plane?’

‘Oh yes … A Catalina, I think.’

‘Was he closing on us?’

The man nodded. ‘Yes! Oh yes! Straight for us, it was coming straight for us.’

‘Diving on us?’

‘Yes – yes! Head on! About half a mile away. No – less. Less!’

Fischer nodded and said briskly, ‘Stand down and pull yourself together!’

Fischer went to the chart table and leant over it, a wave of depression pressing in on him.

They might have been seen. It changed everything.

The enemy might send more aircraft, perhaps patrol boats …

They’d be hunted down.

Unless … unless they stayed submerged and slipped away. But the orders had been clear: he had no alternative but to close in and try to accomplish the task.

Damn! So near and yet so far.

He thought of the fishing boat sailing on, oblivious to everything, a victim ready for the taking, yet maddeningly beyond his reach.

He daren’t surface now. He wasn’t even sure if he dared go to periscope depth and have a look.

Not yet anyway.

He’d take a look in half an hour, he decided. The plane might have given up by then. Even if it hadn’t – well, he’d have to risk it, otherwise he’d lose the prey.

He passed the time bent over the chart, calculating and recalculating the course and speed necessary to stay on the fishing boat’s tail. As before, the fishing boat had been slightly to the west of its projected track. Maybe the wind was backing. He redrew its course line and calculated the manoeuvres necessary to get the U-boat on to the new track.

At the end of an hour he checked with Sonar: there were no propeller noises. He gave the order to go to periscope depth. There was the muted hiss of blowing tanks.

‘… Twenty-five metres … Twenty … Fifteen …’ Then they were levelling off. Finally came the words, ‘Periscope depth!’

Fischer pulled up the search periscope and, his heart in his mouth, put his eye to the lens. As he did so he thought: Please, dear God, let it still be there.

She was a long way away, in the country somewhere, lying in a barn, which accounted for the hard floor. Nearby was some soft straw which would be much better to lie on, but she couldn’t get her limbs to move and carry her across to it. Her body was like stone, heavy and lifeless. For some unaccountable reason the barn was very noisy: there was a whistling and swishing and roaring which reverberated around the bare wooden walls. It was moving too, the barn, the floor tilting strangely … It was confusing, this place. Now something was shaking her. An animal – large, like a cow – was butting its head against her arm. The creature was getting more agitated …

‘Mummy! Mummy! Wake up! Wake up!’

Julie opened her eyes. Instantly she closed them again: the light was blinding. Reality began to seep through into her consciousness: the awful awareness that a real nightmare was lying in wait for her, inescapable, ready to pounce on her if she awoke. She grasped at the image of the barn and tried to push her mind back towards it, back to the soft straw …

‘Mummy, Mummy!
Please
wake up! There’s a plane!’

Julie opened her eyes again and screwed them up against the light. A plane … She groaned slightly, and, rubbing her face with her hand, sat up. As she moved a sharp stabbing pain shot into her temples. Grasping the rail she pulled herself to her feet and the headache settled into a rhythm of dull throbbing blows that made her feel slightly sick.

‘Plane …? Where …?’ She looked around, her eyes refusing to focus properly.

‘There! There!’ Peter pointed away to the right. ‘
There!
’

Julie stared for several seconds before she saw it, a tiny black speck flying low just above the horizon. It looked a long way off. It was moving towards the north, rising now, gaining height. It seemed to hover for a moment, and Julie realised it was turning. She rubbed her eyes and looked again. It took a long curve away until it was hardly visible, then it was heading towards them, getting larger again. For a moment she thought it must have seen them, and was coming straight for them, but then she saw that the dot was banking and dropping down again, retracing its path along the far horizon, towards the south. It repeated the manoeuvre once more, and then again, going back and forth along its path several times.

The boat lurched and Julie clung to the rail to stop herself falling. Peter grasped at her jacket.

‘Mummy, I’m hungry … and I want to go to sleep …’

The small face was pale and tired and a little frightened. He had done very well, considering. Julie tried to sound, if not cheerful, then reassuring. ‘Of course, sweetheart. Let’s open a can or two. Then you curl up down here.’

She bent down to search in the food bag and felt sick again. The boat was moving more jerkily now, its seesaws more violent. She fed Peter quickly and settled him down at the back of the boat under the high wooden side, out of the wind and spray.

She rubbed her aching temples and wished the headache would go away.

She looked for the plane again. It had gone.

She stared for a long time, but there was no sign. Maybe the plane had been German anyway.

She noticed that it had clouded over. High up, there was a solid ceiling of white; lower, there were angry black clouds scudding across the sky. The sea was grey and forbidding, the waves marching relentlessly towards the boat, their crests breaking with an audible hiss. Their onward procession was mesmerising, almost hypnotic.

She dragged her eyes away.
Must think
… David … She made her way slowly along the deck, trying unsuccessfully to dodge the spray and bumping sharply against the mast instead. The old man seemed all right. He was fairly warm and breathing normally. She lifted his head and put the water bottle to his lips. The motion of the boat was much worse up in the bows and it was a job to get any water into his mouth, but finally David nodded that he’d had enough and, falling back against the rope, closed his eyes.

The sickness was rising again. She hurried back to the tiller, shivering as water slopped over the side of the boat, splattered against her legs and seeped through her trousers.