Night Sky (77 page)

She had no idea. What had she worked out before? Twenty-four hours … That meant they should arrive
now
! God …!

But wait. They were going much slower now that the big sail was down. That would make a difference.

Also, they’d been west of their course for most of the time. She corrected herself: No,
all
the time … That meant they would miss the land altogether. It
must
do, otherwise—

She had a nasty thought. It had been in the back of her mind for some time. Perhaps Michel had given her a course to a
safe
part of the coast. Perhaps, by steering outside it, she was even now leading them straight for a dangerous, rocky part of the land …

Perhaps this north-westerly course
wasn’t
safe after all …

She could think of only one thing to do. Steer even further west. To be absolutely sure.

Yes!
West
North-west. That would be the safe thing to do!

Until dawn at least. Then she would turn the boat towards the east again …

She decided to hand steer. But before she settled down, she reached into the oddments box and found another length of thin rope. She went to Peter and, kissing him, tied it round his waist. She tied the other round her own.

It was probably the wrong thing to do. If anything happened she would drag him down … She couldn’t ever bear to think about it.

But whatever happened she wanted to be with him. She couldn’t bear to think of him floating away from her … She murmured, ‘Where you go, I go.’ Then she untied the tiller and put the boat on to its new course.

‘What you got, Radar?’

‘The Scillies, bright and shining like a lot of little stars, Skipper!’

‘Range?’

‘Bishop Rock ten miles, bearing 030.’

‘And how’s the picture?’

‘Good. There’s a strong breeze blowing, about twenty-five knots, but I’m not getting too much clutter. The waves can’t be that big, probably because the wind’s offshore now.’

‘Right-ho. Taff?’

‘Yes, Skipper?’

‘When we get within five miles of Bishop Rock give me a course to a point five miles south of the Lizard, then we’ll take another leg in towards Falmouth.’

‘Roger, Skipper.’

‘And Radar, shout when you see anything, however small.’

‘Always do, Skipper. Eyes skinned like hard-boiled eggs.’

The pilot grimaced at the expression.

He looked down into the blackness and thought about the submarine and wondered what she was doing at this very moment. Racing for home? Creeping between the Scillies and Land’s End? Hiding near the shore?

There might just be time for more than one run. If so, he’d try another further south, then perhaps a sweep to the north of the islands. He’d decide nearer the time.

The intercom crackled.

‘Radar to Skipper. Contact ten miles to starboard, angle twenty degrees.’

The pilot licked his lips. ‘Where is it in relation to the islands?’

‘Five miles south of St Mary’s. But it’s a really small target, Skipper. I mean, it doesn’t
look
like a U-boat. Though I can’t be sure …’

‘Keep an eye on it. Taff?’

‘Yes, Skipper.’

‘Give us a course to the target.’

‘Roger.’

‘Wireless?’

‘Yes, Skipper.’

‘Have we been notified of any friends at sea in this area?’

‘No, sir. No convoys. No MTBs or MGBs …’

‘Radar, could it be a mine?’

‘Don’t think so, sir. And we don’t usually pick up anything that low in the water …’

‘But it’s definitely a target?’

‘Oh yes. No doubt about that.’

If it had been the old radar the pilot might have doubted him, but it wasn’t, it was the H
₂
S and he believed him.

‘Wireless to Skipper.’

‘Go ahead.’

‘We
were
notified that the U-boat was meant to be pursuing a small craft, sir. Maybe this is the small craft—?’

That was exactly what the pilot had been thinking. If so, then where was the U-boat?

The navigator’s voice came over the earphones. ‘Taff to Skipper, course for target 055 degrees, range ten miles.’

The pilot switched to manual and took the plane onto her new course, reducing height at the same time.

He exchanged glances with Reid, the co-pilot, and said into the mike, ‘Might as well go and have a look.’

‘Definitely!’

But the pilot had a feeling about this one – a bad feeling. Something told him it wasn’t a U-boat.

‘Range five miles, Skipper.’

‘Right ho.’ As the pilot took the plane down to seven hundred feet he felt the familiar exhilaration, the thrill of the chase.

‘Radar to Skipper. Look … I may be nuts, but …’

‘Out with it!’

‘I’ve got a moving rock. Just to the south of St Agnes. Quite close in … But it’s
moving
, sir.’

The pilot stared unseeing into the night, his mind racing.

It couldn’t be! But even as he thought it, he knew it could … just possibly …

He said into the mike, ‘Size of contact?’

There was a slight pause. ‘Larger than the first, though still small. Not a ship at any rate.
Could
be a U-boat.’

Jesus Christ!
Yes!

The bastard was hiding!

‘Taff, guide me in to this second contact. Reid, keep me above the rocks. How high are they, Navigator?’

‘Navigator to Skipper. If we make a run from the southeast to the north-west, there’s nothing above seventy-five feet …’

‘Right! Guide me in!’

He would go straight in. Straight in and light her up at one mile.

Then –
Bam!

It was the U-boat, he
felt
it was the U-boat. And trying to hide, the bastard!

But there was no hiding place, not for U-boats. Not any more.

The sea was sluicing over the long, narrow bows, creating great swathes of phosphorescence which ran off in rivers of sparkling silver to the dark water beneath.

Normally Fischer would have worried about the phosphorescence, but U-319 was moving slowly so there was almost no wake to give them away. Besides, it was quite choppy and the luminescent path cut by the submarine would be indistinguishable from the multitude of breaking crests, flashing white and silver against the dark background of the night.

Fischer shivered: the north-east wind was cold. He pulled his scarf tighter round his neck and, moving over the hatch, shouted, ‘Position?’

A voice came floating faintly up. ‘Half a mile south of St Agnes Island.’

Fischer peered into the darkness. Nothing to be seen, but he couldn’t help looking.

He hoped the navigator was right. After so long without a proper fix – visual or star – it was impossible to be positive about one’s position. The navigator had got what he believed to be good bearings on radio beacons issuing from the French coast. Nevertheless Fischer had told the lookouts to keep a sharp watch for white water, just to be on the safe side …

These islands were the very devil. Lots of rocks and islets scattered around, especially here to the south-west. And the rocks rising steeply from the sea floor so that depth-soundings could give no warning.

The only warning they’d
ever
get would be white, breaking water …

U-319 was going at four knots, making tight circles in an area between a mile and half a mile to the south of St Agnes.

They’d been up on top for an hour now. Five to go. A hell of a time … Fischer hated being on the surface in a place like this, it made him nervous. But to enemy radar, U-319 would hopefully be just a tiny speck, another rock in the chaos of white blips that marked the Scillies.

He paced the small bridge then, on a whim, decided to go below to have another quick look at the chart. There was nothing to see up here anyway.

He half-slid, half-climbed down the ladder and, still in his wet-weather gear, went to the chart area. Just before dawn, at about six, he would take U-319 to the entrance to St Mary’s Sound and wait for the prey. The little boat would have to go in that way: it seemed to be the only entrance into the islands – or at least the only
safe
entrance.

Then he’d grab the occupants – and quick. Once he was spotted all hell would break loose. He’d have five minutes – ten at the most. A slim chance. Was there any other way? He began to mull over the possibilities.

There was a muffled shout. Fischer tensed.

Then a cry. Fischer felt his blood run cold.

The klaxon shrieked through the silence, whooping obscenely. Twice.

‘Dive! Dive! Dive!’

Fischer thought:
Oh God, no!

There was a burst of noise.

Men were running forward to the bow to get the nose down; the watch were pouring down the tower from the bridge; the rest were busy in the control room, spinning stopcocks, handling levers, shouting as they completed each manoeuvre. There was a loud hissing noise as the main vents were opened, and Fischer stared at the depth-meter, waiting –
willing
– it to go down …

Christ! He remembered they were doing only four knots. At that speed it would take for ever.
Christ!

Everything was happening with infinite slowness …

Fifteen seconds gone
…

The last man fell down the tower and the hatch was clanged shut.

The depth-meter was just beginning to show something –
at last
. Come on.
Come on
. The water would barely be washing round the conning tower …

One metre! So slow …

Twenty seconds gone
.

Fischer looked over the coxswain’s shoulder. The stick was fully forward, the hydroplanes at maximum pitch, angling the nose down, down, down – but slowly, so slowly …

God, one could go mad in such a moment …

Thirty seconds gone
.

They should have been down by now – safe!

Depth – four metres. Conning tower covered … Not deep enough!

She was going slightly faster now. Eight metres … Almost at periscope depth …

Forty seconds gone
…

Perhaps they’d manage it after all.

Then time stood still. And U-319 took off.

Her port side shot up, up, up, twisting sideways and upwards by the bow. Fischer felt a momentary surprise as the floor rose up against his feet. Then the control room spun rapidly round and he realised he was falling.

Then came the noise, a vast long echoing boom which stunned the ears and reverberated in the brain.

There were shouts … Dull noises which dimly penetrated one’s ringing ears … Men lying on the floor, reaching out …

Panting, Fischer pulled himself up. He tried to shout. But nothing came out. He tried again, ‘Damage reports!’

The messages came back, slowly at first.

‘Flooding in fore-ends. Watertight door closed!’

‘Flooding in accommodation!’

The bow was settling down from its strange upward tilt, settling down – and falling.

He shouted, ‘Blow forward tanks.’ Christ, he had to get more buoyancy into her, otherwise she’d sink like a stone.

The bow was already beginning to tilt more steeply downwards.

‘Depth twenty metres!’

Fischer gulped: she was falling too fast!

‘Forward tanks blown!’

‘Blow aft tanks!’ It was risky, but even if they came up stern first it was better than falling this fast.

Men were pouring aft now, out of the accommodation. As the last man came through, the watertight door was slammed and bolted shut.

‘Accommodation flooding rapidly, Herr Kaleu. We couldn’t stop it.’

Fischer’s eyes fastened on the depth gauge. It was falling steadily.

‘Aft tanks blown!’

Thirty metres … thirty three … still falling.

And they had blown all the main ballast tanks.

The nose was tilting further and further down …

Fischer raced for the chart. How deep—?

Sixty-eight metres.

Christ, they were going to hit the bottom
hard
.

Forty metres … Fischer tried to think: What else, what else!

He looked at the men who had crowded in from the forward sections and yelled, ‘All you to the after-ends!’

The frightened faces were blank and stunned, but they obeyed, grabbing handholds to start the uphill climb to the after sections.

But the nose was tilting further and further down …

Depth: fifty metres and accelerating.

‘Brace yourselves!’

Men flattened themselves against bulkheads or crouched against partitions. Then there was silence.

Those who could see the depth gauge watched it, their eyes round with horror.

Fifty five metres … Sixty …

She hit at sixty-one. The impact pushed in the first fifteen feet of her bow, opening up the already damaged forward compartment and completing the flooding process.

Fischer was aware of the breath being knocked out of his body, of his head meeting hard metal with a thud.

Then there was quiet, except for the hiss of leaking pressure pipes and the moans of men in pain.

U-319 was on the bottom.

Fischer pulled himself up against a partition. The floor was steeply tilted: the submarine was at an angle of about forty-five degrees, her stern high above the sea floor.

She was still moving though: twisting over, slowly and gently on to her port side.

Fischer brushed at the warm blood that was running into his eyes and looked round the control room. There was something wrong, something
else
…

He peered round the partition. Ahead was the bulkhead that separated the control room from the accommodation. The watertight door was still closed and locked tight. But to one side of it water was hissing out in a fan from the bulkhead itself. Fischer stumbled down the slope of the deck and fell against the bulkhead. He put his fingers to the metal. The water was spraying out from a wide fracture which ran from the deckhead almost to the floor.

He looked at it for a long time, then turned.

The men were watching him, their faces blank, patient, passive. Someone appeared from aft. ‘Flooding in the engine room, Herr Kaleu. We’re trying to patch it up now.’