Resembling a mythical sea serpent amidst the clinging fog, the rusting grey conning tower of U-977 broke through the mercurial waters off Lüderitz, followed soon after by the rounded bow. When the hatch opened it was as though a seal had been broken, allowing the salty sea air to rush into the malodorous metal tube, submerged for nearly sixty days since hastily leaving the North Sea.
Several bearded submariners wearing soiled blue denim Kriegsmarine jackets emerged onto the small deck of the conning tower and peered through the swirling fog. One of them began to send a coded message with a shuttered signal lamp. No–one spoke. Submariners were accustomed to maintaining prolonged silences, as if they had forsaken the art of idle conversation. The solitary sound of the bracing South Atlantic waters lapping against the grey hull, streaked with rust, remained unchallenged.
“There it is!” one of the men said, pointing to a flashing light dimly visible off the starboard bow.
“I see it. Did they use the password?”
“They did, Oberleutnant.”
“Signal for them to approach immediately and call the doctor from his bunk.”
“Yes, Oberleutnant.”
The commander peered over the waters surrounding his vessel with narrowed eyes, fidgety body language betraying his discomfort as his dirty fingers twiddled his unkempt beard.
The flashing signal light drew closer until a small rowing boat began to emerge from the shadowy protection of the fog. Now the sound of water lapping against the submarine hull was joined by the rhythmical splash of oars.
A man wearing a black leather jacket and carrying a brown canvas holdall appeared on the conning tower.
He took a deep breath as he contemplated the approaching rowing boat. Then his searching eyes settled on the commander’s unwashed face as the two men squared up to each other. They shook hands firmly.
“Oberleutnant Schäffer, I am forever indebted to you.”
“Please, the war is over now. Call me Heinz,” Schäffer said.
The two men seemed oblivious to all around them.
“May God be with you in your new home, Doctor. Good luck.”
“Thank you, Heinz.” The doctor forced a little smile. “My friends call me Ernst.”
The two men stared into each other’s eyes as though letting go might signal the end of everything they knew in this world.
“I will admit Lüderitz looks a little foreboding at first appearances,” Ernst said.
“They don’t call it the Skeleton Coast for nothing,” Schäffer replied with a little chuckle.
“When do you expect to reach Argentina?”
“We should be there by mid–August, if the engines don’t fail again.”
The two men nodded to each other, still gripping each other’s hand, afraid to let go, to break with the familiarity of the past and embrace the uncertainty of the unknown. By this time the rowing boat had drawn up to U-977 and bumped against its hull on the ocean swell. Three men in civilian clothing were huddled together in the wooden vessel, one holding aloft a shaded lamp that scattered halos in the swirling fog. Ernst clambered down the steel rungs of the ladder, his boots scraping on the metal. Schäffer tossed his canvas holdall down to him and raised a hand to wave.
“Where are you headed?” one of the men in the rowing boat shouted up to Schäffer.
“I cannot tell you,” Schäffer yelled back. Then, in a softer voice, “Better that you don’t know. Look after Dr Adermann, he is a good man.”
“I wish you all a safe journey. Goodbye Heinz,” Ernst shouted as he settled into the rowing boat.
Schäffer rested his arms on the metal railing and watched Ernst, sitting with the canvas bag in his lap, looking up somewhat mournfully at the faces not only of his companions of the past two months, but of a life he was leaving behind, forever. The small rowing boat began to move away as the oars sliced into the water.
“Goodbye Ernst.”
Ernst waved. He looked so insignificant in the rowing boat. How things change, Schäffer thought to himself.