The Passenger (27 page)

‘Permission to come up.' It was Pullman.

‘Granted.' Lorenz was feeling magnanimous.

The photographer appeared with his camera. He looked fragile, shaken, and less assured. ‘May I?' he said, raising the lens.

‘If you must,' said Lorenz. ‘But I can't help feeling that I'm not looking my best.'

WAR DIARY

10.13
Two aircraft sighted. Alarm.

11.00
Mist, light swell. The after starboard lookout has reported a faint shadow at 10° on the port quarter. We alter course and travel toward it at ¾ speed.

11.40
We sail ahead of shadow, our intention being to intercept later.

11.45
To the west and south the horizon is overcast whereas to the north and east it is bright. Average visibility, 5–8 nm. Gradually it becomes clear that the shadow is the conning tower of a submarine; however, it is impossible to establish type.

12.13
The submarine alters course hard a-port.

12.30
We dive as it is too light for a surface attack.

12.50
Through the periscope the submarine is identified: British T-class. Bearing 340° true. Course 220°, speed 10 knots, range 2,000 m. We alter course hard a-port to 270° and proceed at ¾ speed. The mist thickens. Contact lost.

13.15
The hydrophone operator reports propeller noises at 320°. Enemy reappears, proceeding 60°, passing at a high speed, range of 200 m on our port beam. We alter course hard a-starboard to 60°. Port engine at ¾ speed. There are three watch men all of whom are looking away to port but without binoculars. No watch men on the starboard side. We prepare to fire, but the enemy submarine then turns about 150 m ahead of us and withdraws at an inclination of 180°.

13.37
We alter course to 90°. Port engine dead slow, periscope depth. The enemy submarine appears to be patrolling along a NE–SW course line. We will wait for it to return.

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.)

Siegfried Lorenz

E
very 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 Wessel: ‘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.

Z
IEGLER 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.'

‘So what?' said Peters. ‘What does that prove? He was a black. They don't feel pain like us.'

‘Shut up, Peters,' said Ziegler. ‘Is that true? He didn't make a sound?'

‘Not a whimper,' said Schmidt. ‘I often wonder where he is. I'd like to think he found a woman who wasn't put off by his stump and that he went on to raise a family. Perhaps he's sitting in some African village right now, bouncing children on his knee, telling
them all about how he would have drowned that day, had it not been for a courageous German boy.'

‘A nice thought,' said Lorenz from behind his green curtain.

‘Oh, I didn't realize you were there, Kaleun,' said Schmidt.

‘He'll very probably get to know more Germans in the fullness of time,' said Lorenz. ‘But I can't help feeling he'll be disappointed. You may have given him unrealistic expectations, Schmidt.'

L
ORENZ COULDN'T SLEEP.
L
OUD SNORING
issued from the crew quarters: a horrible, liquid respiration that came in short bursts separated by crackling, pulmonary interludes. Something in the food had caused many of the men to complain of abdominal pain, and the heads had been in constant use throughout the previous day. A foul, cesspit smell hung in the air—rank, heavy, and strong. Lorenz felt hot and agitated. The curtain that separated his nook from the rest of the boat gave him no real privacy. He wanted to get away from the snoring and the stink, to be on his own, to still his mind and order his thoughts. Sitting up, he swung his legs off the mattress, rested his elbows on his knees, and lowered his head into his hands. Perspiration lacquered his forehead, and when he massaged his temples he could feel salty granules beneath his fingertips. He felt nauseous and wondered if he had also eaten food that was going to make his stomach cramp and loosen his bowels. Gradually, the queasiness subsided, and he stood up.

In the control room, a small number of men were at their posts keeping the boat on a steady course at a depth of thirty meters. Earlier, headquarters had sent an aircraft warning: Catalinas—probably out of Reykjavik. Lorenz examined the charts, exchanged a few words with the helmsman, and climbed up the ladder into the conning tower. He shut the hatch at his feet and experienced a sense of relief: quiet, stillness, solitude. His gaze took in the computer, the attack periscope, the narrowness of
the space he occupied. Leaning against the ladder for support, he closed his eyes and an image formed in his mind—a miniature U-330, gliding through darkness. It was something he did routinely when the boat was being depth-charged, in order to visualize his position in relation to enemy destroyers. He dissolved the starboard armor plating, achieving a cut-away diagram effect that afforded him interior views of every compartment. Homunculi moved around the control room, and above them he saw a tiny silhouette, himself, in a bubble of yellow light.