He would have wirelessed his estimated time of arrival at Wilhelmshaven, giving it as noon 26 October – today, Saturday – when he’d surfaced on Thursday night after groping his way blind through the Dover Strait. Not sooner than that because he couldn’t have been anything like certain of making it, for various sound reasons including blindness, i.e. having no periscope; and in point of fact he hadn’t been able to transmit even then, for the additional good reason that the boat’s wireless had been defunct. Explaining this to Kapitan zu See Schwaeble, in Kommodore Michelsen’s office – Michelsen, the U-boat chief in Wilhelmshaven, being away in Kiel and Schwaeble being his deputy – Otto added that amongst other action damage the two wireless masts and the aerial they carried had been shot away – along with most of the after part of the bridge and the periscope standards. Schwaeble, a hard-faced man in his early forties, hair greying at the temples and a duelling scar on one cheek, had broken in with: ‘As I saw. My first thought was how astonishing, the punishment a UBII can stand up to. Then, von Mettendorff, what about the punishment her captain and crew endured – and despite it brought her back!’
Otto blinking at him, as if he barely understood the interruption. Head swimming at that moment. He got it together again, though, finished with ‘and although my telegraphists had rigged a jury aerial during our first hours on the surface – Tuesday night – they were to discover later – Thursday, as I was explaining – that the set itself had packed up, was not repairable.’
Hence he’d been unable to send an ETA or other report. So this morning he’d called up the signal station on Borkum by light, identifying himself and adding, Request inform FdU Wilhelmshaven that my ETA Schillig Roads is noon today 26th. Proceeding on surface with considerable damage from gunfire and depthcharging to bridge, conning-tower and after-casing, battery containers cracked and periscope will not rise. This followed the sinking by torpedo of British destroyer depot ship Hecla, six thousand six hundred tons, at 1258/22nd in position 50 degrees 05' N, 4 degrees 40' W. I also had five men killed and seven with broken bones and suspected skull fractures.
In the same message he’d given the names of those killed – Leutnant zu See Hofbauer, Torpedo Chief Stroebel, Signalman Wassmann and Stoker Reihl. Stroebel had died only this last night, having never recovered consciousness. He, like the others, had been buried at sea, lashed in a weighted hammock and launched from the fore-casing. One prayer, and finish.
Schwaeble frowned at a copy of the message, which had been passed from Borkum by land-line. ‘Your third officer amongst those killed. So you and your first lieutenant – Stahl – have been sharing watches these four days.’
‘Together, mainly. Wasn’t much chance of sleeping.’ A shrug: ‘None, for me.’
‘You are very much to be congratulated, von Mettendorff, and I have no doubt your achievement will receive the recognition it deserves.’
‘I had a great deal of luck, sir. But on the subject of – as you say, recognition – may I suggest that my entire crew, every man of them – and foremost among them I’d say my engineer, Hintenberger—’
‘Include all relevant details and recommendations in your patrol report, and have it ready for the Kommodore first thing Monday morning. That gives you all of tomorrow to draw it up, the rest of today for catching up on sleep, no doubt. And a square meal or two – uh?’
In response to the message telephoned from Borkum they’d sent a minesweeper to meet him and escort him into the Jade – passing the buoyed western limit of Schillig Roads, in which he’d been interested to see battle squadrons of the High Seas Fleet at anchor – and finally he’d berthed his noticeably misshapen submarine, with new victory pennants flying from a makeshift flagstaff, in the inner Ausrustungshafen shortly before two p.m. Not bad, in the circumstances, in relation to the ETA he’d have sent two days ago if he’d been able to; but as far as he himself was concerned, there’d been one thought predominantly in mind, nothing to do with the crowd of cheering submariners and phalanx of senior officers including this Captain Schwaeble – whom Helena had said she’d met, or knew. Helena, whom he’d had in mind and had been looking for, scanning the crowd and the surroundings for, while a brass band blared and ambulances were parked with their rear doors open, medics and stretcher-bearers as well as the brass-hats waiting for a gangway to be thumped over by the shoreside berthing party.
They’d seemed awed by the extent of the damage – bridge with most of its after part shot away, periscope standards shattered, jagged shell-hole in the conning-tower, port side, and half the after-casing gone. To the repeated question from his distinguished visitors as to how on earth he’d managed to bring her back – with no periscopes and the conning-tower flooded, all that – he’d found himself almost tongue-tied, as surprised by the daftness of the question as they seemed to be by his achievement. His answer to them – if he could have put it in some way that might not have seemed rude – being simply that as the boat’s commander, it had been his duty as well as natural inclination to bring her and her crew back, and – that was it, he had. Although one of them, a korvetten-kapitan who was an Ace and had recently been appointed to command one of the new U-Cruisers, had commented that many a commanding officer in a situation such as von Mettendorff had found himself in might well have not been able to confront the problems this young man had licked. So what would they have done, Otto had wondered – sat there on the bottom and bloody died? Oh, he’d had luck, for sure – on the heels of extremely bad luck – bad management even, might have been arguable. But in terms of sheer achievement – actually, his own pressing need, all he was really thinking about once the wounded had been carted off and Claus Stahl had taken over other administrative details – was having managed to extricate himself from that circus by about two-thirty, aided and abetted by Hans Graischer, who’d shown him to a dockside office with a telephone in it so he could ring Helena. All Graischer or any of the others knew was that it was an extremely important private call he had to make – maybe to his family – so having showed him in there he’d left him alone to do it.
Fairly desperate by this time, having expected her to be on that quayside: he’d actually prayed for her to be, during the long but suddenly so much easier escorted passage up around the islands. After Borkum, Juist, then Norderney – where the minesweeper had met them, passing close alongside before taking station ahead, her men on deck cheering and waving – then Baltrum, Langeoog, Spiekeroog and Wangerooge, finally Minsener and Oog, around which they’d turned into the Jade. Hintenberger had come up into the bridge at that stage to ask for special weekend leave in order to visit his old father in Bremen – the old man being more or less bedridden and alone except for half a dozen cats. Otto had told him yes, of course, ask Claus Stahl to fill in an authorisation for a travel warrant and he’d sign it. But he was thinking of Helena every other minute, knowing she’d be there. She did after all have contacts in the base – had mentioned Schwaeble, for instance, but knew Franz Winter too, must surely know others; and since they’d have had the news of him from Borkum by no later than say 0700, there’d have been plenty of time for her to have heard it and rushed to meet him.
It had taken him a while to get through, having first to get an outside line from the exchange, but eventually he was connected, and was informed by some male colleague of hers that she’d gone to Hamburg for the weekend, wouldn’t be back until Sunday night or early Monday. No, they did not have a number at which she might be contacted in Hamburg. At least, this fellow – a soldier of some sort – didn’t think so. He added that he was the only one there and would shortly be locking up.
It would have been surprising if she had not had an engagement of some kind on a Saturday night, but he’d counted on persuading her to get out of that and come with him to the Snake Pit. But – Hamburg, for God’s sake: and the question in mind then, Who with? He’d hung up clumsily and leant across the table, folding his arms on it and resting his head on them. Lunch had been biscuits and hard cheese washed down with what passed for coffee – which was all right, was what they’d more or less lived on these last few days, but wasn’t exactly strengthening, and he hadn’t slept for more than seconds at a time.
In fact if she’d been there and had agreed to break her date, it might have been questionable how he’d have made out. Except that he’d have had a few hours’ rest. And if anything could have galvanised one… While definitely non-galvanising was having to submit himself to debriefing by Schwaeble – now, immediately, in advance of the usual patrol report which he’d be submitting when he’d had time to get it down on paper. One usually prepared it in rough form on one’s way back from patrol, and this of course had not been possible. Apart from that – well, other priorities were to visit the men in hospital, and telephone the couple in whose house Helena had rooms. Might in fact do that right away: they might have a contact number for her.
Probably would not. Since even her office didn’t. Which seemed odd.
A covering of tracks?
Graischer burst in, looking anxious. He knew about the Schwaeble meeting, had queried whether Otto shouldn’t be getting that over before making private calls, however urgent…
‘Get through all right?’
‘Yes. Thanks.’ Still sitting there, on this stool with the telephone in front of him. No time to ring those people. Made no difference: if she was in Hamburg, that was where she was. Out of reach. Schwaeble first, then call them. Hands flat on the table, pushing himself up. Graischer began, ‘There’s a room allocated to you in the Mess block, main building. Secretary’ll give you the key. He’s having your gear put up there – if it’s amongst the load that’s arrived. Most has, but some not. Coming by rail and road from Bruges.’
‘Never thought of that.’ Tapping his forehead. ‘Christ, my brain…’
‘Probably is there.’ Graischer smiled: ‘The gear, I mean, not your brain.’ Otto thinking that whoever had organised all that so quickly – the recall signal 21 October, and one’s stuff shipped from Bruges to Wilhelmshaven by today or maybe yesterday – had to be more on the ball than he was, at this juncture. The evacuation of Bruges and the surrounding area must have been ordered several days before the 21st, of course. But how might he have dressed for a date with Helena this evening, if he’d had one? Well – in the sea-going uniform he had on now.
Shabby, but adequate. And he’d have borrowed what else he needed – including a razor, which with a few other items he’d left in the boat. Just hadn’t bloody thought of it: thoughts had all been focused on Helena, not on himself. Abrupt release from the fairly considerable tensions of the past few days could have had that effect, he supposed, shutting out everything but her. Blinking at Graischer – who looked as if he was worrying about him, his state of health and/or the undesirability of keeping Schwaeble waiting. Both concerns were valid enough. Standing up suddenly, as he just had, had left him feeling dizzy for a moment. Telling Graischer, while adjusting the raked angle of his white U-boat CO’s cap, ‘Thanks for the help, Hans old man. I’ll go see Schwaeble.’
‘Know your way?’
‘Kommodore’s office. Well – know where it is, sure. More or less.’
‘I’ll take you along. You look a bit groggy, to be honest.’
‘Tell me, though – Franz Winter, U201 – he back yet?’
‘Not as far as I know. No, he can’t be.’
So she wasn’t spending the weekend with old Franz, at least… Graischer was saying, as they clattered down an iron fire-escape-type staircase to the roadway, ‘Boats have been flocking back, those from the nearer billets, and the first – oh, ten or twelve, I suppose, mostly your own flotilla mates – have already been fuelled, re-armed and re-victualled and pushed out again. Shouldn’t talk about it, but the rumour is of impending action by the High Seas Fleet, so we’d be setting a trap for the British, presumably.’
Schwaeble was making notes from time to time in pencil on a signal-pad. He’d just scribbled 69 1/2 metres. Frowning at those figures: ‘Less than forty fathoms, although you were to seaward of the forty-fathom line?’
‘Unmarked shallow patch, it must have been. Can’t swear to our position within a couple of thousand metres, I’d been dodging around quite a bit, but – colossal piece of luck, nothing short of hitting the bottom would have stopped us.’
Raising one hand open, then closing it as if crushing an egg in his palm, the by-now rather over-worked symbolism for a submarine imploding, squashed by sea-pressure well below her tested depth.
Schwaeble agreed. ‘Rated to fifty metres and stopped at seventy, where there should have been no bottom much short of a hundred.’
‘She struck hard, too. The tower was flooded, of course – result of the destroyers’ gunnery – and short of blowing main ballast – maybe I should have, blown her to the surface and ordered abandon ship – but diving that fast and perhaps slightly concussed oneself—’
‘Think you were?’
‘Hard to be certain, sir. We were thrown around like ninepins – and head injuries, as I said – other breakages as well – legs, an arm or two, collar-bones—’
‘On the bottom then, with all machinery stopped – were you hearing the enemy at all?’
‘I thought I did, from time to time, but—’ He stopped, shook his head. ‘Don’t know. And we’d no hydrophone that worked by then.’
‘No more depthcharging either, I take it?’
‘Two isolated charges soon after we struck, but a long way off. They must have believed they’d sunk us, tried with those two to see if they could stir us up, maybe. We may have travelled further slant-wise than they’d have reckoned. Any case, long as we stayed absolutely quiet – and we had no option on that score—’
‘Of course not. Although—’
‘Oh, a very large “although”.’ Cutting in as if talking to himself, with his eyes shut for a moment, thoughts clouding. Recalling the extreme anxieties, life-and-death quandaries. Pulling himself together then: ‘I beg your pardon, sir. But – on the sea-bed, not knowing we’d ever get off it, and the worst of it that I daredn’t lift a finger to find out. Except I did know the tower was flooded. Opening the vent in the lower hatch by just a crack we got a needle-jet at full sea-pressure, warning me that when the time came to try to get her off I’d have to start by pumping out some – well, the midships comp tank was the obvious choice.’ A shrug that might have been a shiver: ‘That is, if the pump would work. Another thing I couldn’t ascertain was whether if we did get her up I’d have the use of a periscope. The main ’scope’s gland had succumbed to blast or pressure, giving us a continuous intake – similar trickles into the TSC bilge via the for’ard hydroplanes’ glands – but whether the big scope would eventually be useable or the topside damage might have jammed or even bent it – one realised this was at least quite probable. And the attack ’scope was of course inaccessible in the flooded tower.’
‘UB81 being different in that respect from others in her class.’
He nodded. ‘Most do have them the other way about.’
‘Was she on an even keel?’
‘List to starboard of about fifteen degrees, once she’d settled. And slightly bow-down. That was another possibility, that she’d have dug her snout in, and depending on the consistency of the sand or mud—’
‘Time, when you hit the bottom?’
‘Two-forty p.m., sir. Control-room clock stopped on impact. My own’ – he tapped his top pocket – ‘kept ticking. The impact was violent. As you can imagine. How she didn’t break apart…’ Shake of the head. ‘The men who died, incidentally – or did I say this already? – well, they were only three of about a dozen who eventually came round. Not Hofbauer, my navigator, his skull was actually crushed. But gas – chlorine – was another threat; battery containers had been cracked – hardly surprisingly – so there was electrolyte washing around in the tank. Obviously if salt-water had got in—’
‘Quite.’
Schwaeble got up, moved to a window, stood gazing out. His shape and stance were similar to Franz Winter’s – that fighting stance, assertion of virility, pugnacity. Head jerking round on a rather short, thick neck – which was also an attribute of Winter’s – demanding, ‘How long were you in this state of enforced inertia?’
‘Four hours, sir. No – four-and-a-half. I had to wait for darkness – and give it longer than might be absolutely necessary, since I thought it was conceivable a destroyer might have hung around. If they’d guessed there might be life in us they’d know this was the way we’d play it. And if they were lurking up there, they’d hear our first stirrings, and – stayed quiet too, no doubt have stood by their guns.’
Remembering. To an extent, re-living. The lack of light, for one thing: not even the emergency lighting, after they’d hit the bottom, only a few flashlights of which he’d forbidden the use until they did start moving and might need them. Damaged and unconscious men having been taken care of first, of course, and the pressure-hull inspected for leaks by Hintenberger and his henchmen.
He added, ‘Something of a dilemma, initially. If I found I could shift her, whether to accept the rather slim odds on making it back here – via the Dover Strait and other minefields, in the state we were already – or save at least some of our lives by surfacing and abandoning ship. That’s – as I say – if surfacing were possible. But with the necessity of waiting for darkness – well, abandoning wouldn’t necessarily have saved any lives at all – in a roughish sea and no rescue ships near. And if I’d tried it before dark, might have been blown to pieces the minute we broke surface. As to surfacing, incidentally, or even getting off the bottom, another possibility was that the exterior main ballast might have been holed – when the casing was shot away, could have happened then. In which case we might well not have had sufficient buoyancy, if we had only internal main ballast tanks that we could blow.’
‘But you made the best possible decision, and succeeded.’
A shrug: ‘Had the luck of the devil, sir.’
‘Your crew stood up well to the four-hour wait?’
‘Did indeed, sir. I explained the situation – that we had no option but to just sit tight, and what we’d do then – try to do – and they settled down. Some slept – couldn’t play cards or other games, having no light. So – dozing, chatting…’
He remembered Hintenberger growling – on his bunk, Otto and Stahl on theirs, only a few feet distant from each other in the darkness – the engineer musing philosophically, ‘Had a fair run for my money, anyway. Lasted a lot longer than a good few of the fellows I started out with. But it’s a fact that no-one’s luck lasts for ever.’
Otto had cut in, ‘Mine does, Chief. Therefore as far as this little contretemps is concerned, so will yours.’
‘You reckon?’
‘Definitely. With your assistance and experience contributing, naturally. Dare say there’ll be a few bad moments, but—’
‘Under the Dover mines – as we were saying earlier, eh?’
‘Through them, more than under.’
‘On the surface? A night-time passage?’
‘Hardly. Along with the mine barrage goes a whole fleet of trawlers and drifters. I’m not mad, Chief. We’ll go through dived, using the route we know and trusting in the continuance of my well-proved luck.’
‘Well.’ The engineer had reached over to rap on Hofbauer’s bunk-board. They’d put the navigator in his own bunk, with his broken head wrapped in a towel that would by now be scarlet. ‘Didn’t help this lad here much, did it. Barely weaned, and – phut!’
‘His own personal bad luck, that’s all. But I truly am a lucky swine, Chief, and it must be better to serve with a lucky skipper than the other kind – uh?’
‘You’re lucky as hell with girls, we all know that.’
‘Well – since you mention it—’
‘Pin your great bat ears back, Stahl, here comes the dirt!’
‘No, it doesn’t. What I was about to say is there’s one waiting for me in Wilhelmshaven that’s truly out of this world!’
‘Saying there weren’t half a dozen in Bruges?’
‘This one’s – frankly, she’s exquisite. And keen as mustard. Honest truth, she’s a corker, and she and I have – an understanding. So I have a powerful interest in getting there, and I damn well will, you can count on it!’
‘Saying that if it wasn’t for the expectation of a bit of nooky we could not count on it?’
It had gone on for a while, he remembered, that exchange. The engineer complaining that it must be great for Otto with his good looks and height, fine physique; but lacking any of those attributes he’d always had to rely on hypnotism or Mickey Finns.
‘Don’t suppose you ever had to trick one into it, Skipper, did you?’
‘Trick… no. Not trick. Oh, except—’
‘True confession time now, Stahl!’
‘No.’ Letting himself off on that one, shaking his head in the dark and the deep-water silence. He’d said something like, ‘No, confessing nothing.’
Yawning, jerking upright on his chair, having come close to falling asleep – Schwaeble was on his way back from the window, dumping himself behind the desk again.
‘At six-thirty or thereabouts, then – managed to pump out that midships comp tank, did you?’
‘Yes. Yes, sir. We did. The pump ran, all right. Might not have, but – thank God… Sounded very loud, after the long silence. Enormous relief initially, but I remember thinking then that if one or both of ’em had stayed up to listen for us, that’s as far as we might get.’ Suppressing another yawn. ‘Another worry – should’ve mentioned – was the battery. Specific gravity frighteningly low, I had to lighten her enough to have her lifting-off before using motors – before trying to use ’em, wasting that effort of battery-power if she was actually immoveable. Using enough on the pumping effort meanwhile – and no certainty that’d last out. Although it did. Took a while – sweating blood second by second, to be honest. Must have been – no, was seven – seven o’clock – before she began to straighten up, lose the list she’d had on her. A sort of quiver – like she’d felt it suddenly – after pumping all that time and damn-all coming of it…’
Despair had been close to setting in. Using a torch several times during that period to focus on the depth-gauge and the bubble, its beam poking this way and that, he’d seen it in others’ faces and – he hoped – had managed to keep the signs of it out of his own. Highly conscious though he had been that at any moment the ballast pump might just stop – overheat, seize up, or simply the battery giving up the ghost, therefore no hope of using motors either. Last resort then – HP air to blow main ballast, the Tauchtanks, of which some – externals – might have been holed, so that trying to blow them you’d only be venting high-pressure air out through them, expending your last resource to no purpose. Lose your reserves of HP air, you’d have nothing; obviously the compressor could only be run when you were on the surface with the hatch open.
But then: that quiver. Pump still running and she was shifting. Hardly daring to believe… Stahl, he remembered, suggesting rather vacuously, ‘Try the emergency circuits, sir?’
Because the LTOs – electrical ratings – Freimann and Schachtschneider – had reckoned to have fixed them by something as simple as replacing blown fuses; so maybe you’d get some dim light if you wanted it that badly – which he didn’t, hadn’t allowed them to switch on, preferring to conserve what vestige of power they might still have. He said no again now to Stahl. Why waste power on bloody lighting? Weak flashlight beams were enough, that and working by feel, knowing as one did (or should) where every vent, valve and blow was to be found. Hintenberger certainly did: that little ape was a real tower of strength. But whether or not there was air remaining in the bottles and groups of bottles – and whether the externals would hold it if/when you gave it to them, which you’d do gently anyway, to reduce the chances of her reacting to it violently, suicidally… In the first place because sea-pressure could have crushed her at any time in the last four-and-a-half hours – without anyone opening a blow or even sneezing – and in shifting her even to the very small extent that had been done, now you were already imposing new stresses. Also because the external tanks were constructed of thinner, lighter steel, were thus more vulnerable.
Better not use externals, he told himself. May well not need them anyway. Blow internals: and even those with caution.
‘Stop the pump.’
‘Stop the pump.’ Stahl, thin-voiced, and the stoker crouched in a machinery-space a few metres for’ard didn’t need to report it stopped, you heard it – or rather, ceased to hear it.
‘Shut the comp’s suction and inboard vent. Boese – you at the panel?’
‘Am that, sir.’
‘Check main vents shut.’
‘They are, sir. Just checked ’em.’
‘Check again numbers five and six – and check their kingstons open.’
Those were the midships internal main ballast (or ‘diving’) tanks. The extra weight in her, in the tower, was directly above this control-room; it made sense to put the lift as near as possible right below it. Kingstons were large valves in the bottoms of some main ballast tanks; water was expelled through them when high-pressure air was blasted in, as long as the vents on top were shut.
‘Fore ’planes to five degrees of rise.’
Leading Torpedoman Bausch was in charge in the TSC, where the ’planes were still in hand control. Acknowledgement came back by word of mouth: ‘Fore ’planes at five degrees of rise, sir.’
In the hope that the motors would respond, by and by. A flashlight beam on the after ’planes’ indicator dial showed that Honeck had them level.
‘All right, cox’n?’
‘Right enough, sir, considerin’.’
‘Boese, listen. Put one two-second puff of HP air in Tauchtank five, and the same in six.’
‘Aye, sir.’
In pitch darkness, using a wheelspanner to wrench number five’s blow open, counting loudly, ‘One – two!’ and jerking it shut; then the same with six.
‘Five and six blows shut, sir.’
You’d heard the blast of high pressure thump into each of the tanks and then cut off. Felt the boat’s lurch – and heard from a distance Hintenberger’s sharp, ‘Ah, the darling!’ A flashlight on the depthgauge simultaneously showing the needle jump from 69 ½ metres to 68, then continue sweeping shakily through 67, 66, 65…
They were applauding quietly. He let it go on for about ten seconds, then called for quiet. Thought of reminding them that she was still a long way below her tested depth, and so forth, but decided they must all be aware of it, weren’t idiots or children, actually were bloody heroes. He told Schwaeble, ‘When I’d nursed her up to less than fifty metres I opened number six’s vent because she was coming up too fast. Left the air in number five while we tried motors slow ahead – which was all right, but she was still too buoyant and I vented five. As well as the normal trim change when rising I guessed she’d have brought mud up with her, and as that fell off she’d have been getting lighter still, so I flooded the buoyancy tank again and that near-enough put us right. The empty comp tank alone was compensating for the flooded tower.’
‘And you were able to surface.’
He nodded. ‘Blind, though. Periscope wouldn’t move; nothing I could do until the tower had drained down. Felt a bit – irresponsible, asking for it, tossing around waiting to be shot at or rammed or – well, couldn’t be helped. And as it happened, we had the place to ourselves. Actually did… Anyway, I guessed the tower would empty itself as far as it could through the hole or holes they’d shot in it, so I gave it time for that before opening the drain.’
Schwaeble recalling, as if to himself, ‘Which is there in case one might be so rash as to dive with the top hatch open.’
‘If one were to be killed – stuck in that hatch maybe – having given the order to dive – those below would slam the lower hatch.’
A nod. ‘Of course.’
‘Both hatches were in working order, anyway. With the tower and standards shattered, the top one at least might not have been, could have been jammed solid. Yet another considerable relief.’
Actually, he remembered a near-screaming, howling sense of relief as he’d unclipped the top one and sent it clanging back, aided by the pressure from inside, and climbed out into the wrecked bridge, found the voicepipe intact – the forefront of the bridge hadn’t suffered – opened it and yelled down, ‘Start main engines! Set standing charge one side! Steer east by south!’ The sea had still been rough and there’d been a lot of movement on her, spray lashing over in night air like iced champagne – actually bloody nectar as the diesels grumbled into life and UB81 under helm and gathering way swung her fore-casing into the direction of east by south.
‘You all right, von Mettendorff?’
Cheeks wet below the eyes, he realised. Using two or three fingertips of each hand to deal with it as unobtrusively as possible. Head and heart throbbing; heart actually thumping. Telling Schwaeble, ‘I’m fine, sir, thank you.’ He’d nodded, then wished he hadn’t – his skull felt loose. Getting back to the sequence of events, however: ‘Main problem facing us – looking ahead, I mean – was having no periscope. Obviously couldn’t use the tower when dived, and the artificer couldn’t do anything with the big one, it simply wouldn’t budge.’
Schwaeble murmured sardonically, ‘Certainly a slight problem…’
‘Sheer luck got us through. Worked out a straight course for each day’s dived run, went to twenty-five metres and hoped for the best, surfaced at night not knowing what company we might have – same slow business, of course, surfacing, the draining-down of the tower each time. No eyes, no ears, and no other way, did provide several pretty awful minutes – Wednesday, Thursday and Friday nights. In the dark, of course, but still – not comfortable, exactly. While as to mines – couldn’t wireless for information on new fields or recent clearances, just had to take our chances. Did have a charted track through the Dover Strait – courtesy of Korvetten Kapitan Franz Winter – and – well, as I say, sir, just damn lucky.’
‘In my view, a good deal more skill and courage than luck. A degree of it, of course, but we all need that; if there weren’t a certain amount of it about we’d all have been dead years ago. Go get some rest, and eat. Then you’d better have a check-up from the quack. I’ll see that’s arranged – for all of you. Sorry I had to put you through this, von Mettendorff.’ On his feet, with his hand out across the desk: ‘Once again, congratulations.’
Otto shook his hand. Then: ‘May I ask, sir – is there likely to be a job for me now?’
‘A job for you.’ Eyebrows lifting. ‘You mean while your boat’s undergoing some major reconstruction?’
‘Exactly, sir. Repairs’ll take weeks, and—’
‘And what?’
‘I’m told a dozen or so boats have been turned round in something like record time and sent out again?’
‘That is—’ He checked, staring at him, then nodded. ‘Yes, they have. But as UB81 will be out of commission – yes, perhaps two, three weeks—’
‘Only wondered if there might be a new boat coming along, or if another CO happened to go sick?’
‘A little holiday from sea won’t do you any harm, von Mettendorff. In fact I’d say you need one.’
‘But – can’t help wondering why this general recall and re-deployment, sir. Unless something big’s going on? I saw units of the Hochseeflotte at anchor in Schillig Roads on our way in – Third Battle Squadron, I think, but also—’
‘Third Battle Squadron’s coaling. What they may be up to after that, God knows. What makes you think – what you just said, something big?’
‘Trying to understand it, sir. Guessing.’ With his hands on the back of the chair he’d been using, letting it take some of his weight. ‘Taking us off patrol then rushing us out again – and the Hochseeflotte, as you say—’
‘The general recall of U-boats, von Mettendorff – I tell you this in confidence, now – follows a change in strategy. Policy, perhaps I should say. You’ve been out there to sink Allied ships – any Allied ships – and it has been decreed that this should not continue. The order came from the Chief of Admiralstab, Admiral Reinhard von Scheer himself. Effectively it returns us to the situation we were in prior to February of last year, when what they call “unrestricted submarine warfare” was introduced.’
‘Meaning we’re now restricted to sinking warships?’
A shrug: ‘That would seem to be a logical conclusion.’ He’d caught the note of sarcasm. Schwaeble also – and perhaps regretting it, having spoken out of his own weariness and maybe frustration, correcting himself with: ‘But in theory, not entirely – as far as merchant vessels are concerned we’d be confined to the ridiculous procedures involved in “stop and search”.’
‘You say Admiral von Scheer has initiated this, sir?’
‘The order emanates from him. I know nothing of its origins beyond that. But even the Chief of Admiralstab is accountable to Government – uh?’
Seemingly angry now, whether at Otto’s persistence or at the situation itself, or both – the persistence more or less obliging him to discuss it. Natural inclination to play ostrich, for the head to remain buried in the sand. Otto apologised. ‘It’s only that one feels so much in the dark, sir. There were rumours in Bruges – weeks ago – of the new government seeking an armistice – which at the time seemed more like subversive propaganda than anything to take seriously. But with this now—’
‘All right. All right.’ A sigh. ‘But again in the strictest confidence. There is reason to believe that armistice negotiations are in progress. My own understanding – on which I would prefer not to be quoted – is that the American President – Wilson – insisted on the suspension of attacks on merchant vessels – passenger vessels, anyway – as a condition of entering into such discussions. Which might explain the position in which Admiral Scheer now finds himself.’
‘So the boats that have recently been sailed—’
‘Are taking up whatever positions they’ve been ordered to. Others too – not necessarily returning here. Boats from the Mediterranean as well as the Atlantic and the North Sea. But, von Mettendorff, I have not said a word to you on this subject. Go and sleep.’