He woke on the Sunday morning feeling almost as good as new physically, but in a state of slight foreboding. Time – by the old silver watch that had survived a great deal one way and another, since he’d received it as a Christmas present when he’d been about knee-high to a Rottweiler – just past seven. Darkish out there, still. He’d slept-out his exhaustion – had had a few hours flat out yesterday afternoon and evening, then after dinner in the Mess had got his head down again by ten – having resisted urgings by a bunch of others to have one more brandy for the road and then see what was happening in the town.
Kurt Edeltraut, one of those who’d been trying to persuade him, had challenged him with ‘Not scared, are you?’
‘Scared? Of what?’
Deuker, a paymaster lieutenant, cut in with: ‘There’ve been incidents in the town, of late. Mutinous swine from the battleships. They get drunk, lose their heads. Don’t merely fail to salute their officers, damn well push ’em off the pavement!’
‘I don’t believe it!’
Walter Bohme, until recently of the Flanders flotilla, confirmed it. ‘Happened more than once. That sort of incident.’
‘And then what’s ensued?’
‘Depends who’s involved. None of us’d stand for that kind of thing obviously, but the officers of our Hochseeflotte just huff and puff and damn-all else. Many of them are not of the same calibre as ourselves, I regret to say. But there are patrols in the streets, of course. And I can tell you, when the rebellious swine see we’re U-boat officers they back off and shut up damn quick!’
‘So what’s behind it? Same as the so-called “strike” a year ago?’
‘Similar, yes. Complaints of bad food and not enough of it, while their officers guzzle away like hogs and drink like fish. Which is nothing but the truth. Get yourself invited to dine in any of the battle-wagons, you’ll see it for yourself. Discipline’s harsh, I may say – aimed at keeping the hotheads in line, but tending to have the opposite effect.’
‘Open and shut case of rotten officers, then.’
‘Well, it is. Most of ’em either too young or too old. Very few sound, experienced men of middling rank – of our rank, for instance. Simple reason that the best of us infinitely prefer an active life in submarines or destroyers to swinging eternally round moorings in protected anchorages. They’re left with youngsters who’re scared to make ’emselves unpopular and deadbeats who’ve lost heart.’
Otto had glanced at Edeltraut, who nodded. ‘Same with the ships’ companies, mind you. We’ve got the pick of the bunch.’
‘Of course we have. In the nature of the business, isn’t it. But what about political influences?’
‘Plenty.’ Franz Stolzenburg, with whom Otto had an appointment for a medical check-up this Sunday morning. Blue cloth between the gold stripes of a kapitan-leutnant marked him as a doctor. He added, ‘Ashore and in the ships. Although the barracks are stuffed full of some of the worst of them. It’s got worse of course since the revolution in Russia, and the USPD has a lot to answer for. Independent Social Democratic Party they may call themselves, but there are a lot of ultra-lefties in their ranks. Going by a lot that I’ve seen and heard – we medicos do get around, you know, and of course we all know each other – well, there’ve been numerous points of contact – political, I mean – and the mood’s not getting any better.’ A shrug: ‘The prognosis, eh? To be frank, I don’t see how we could expect it to do anything but get worse, in present circumstances. There’s a strong tide of opinion to the effect that we’ve lost the war – which I believe is the case – little doubt anyway that the Army’s shot its bolt. So the talk of armistice – well, much more like defeat, isn’t it, surrender? Our apology for a government humbly requesting armistice – meaning they want to chuck their hands in – and the enemy dictating the terms on which they might start talking – but our lot calling it “armistice” because defeat, which is the reality of it, historically leads to revolution?’
‘Hence’ – Kurt Edeltraut again – ‘the talk of Flottenvorstoss.’ Meaning fleet action. ‘The concept being – I’d guess – that with a major naval victory – even Pyrrhic – armistice terms must swing in our favour to some degree – and at least the Navy’s honour’s not sold down the river.’
‘A naval victory is considered achievable, is it?’
The doctor looked around before he answered, saw that they were alone – no stewards in earshot – and nodded. ‘Whether achievable or not, it’s being planned. Orders from von Scheer, plans being laid by von Hipper, doubtless with the enthusiastic assistance of von Trotha. Nickname for it in the wardrooms is “The Death Ride”.’
‘Hardly suggests confidence in the outcome?’
‘Smacks of bravado, doesn’t it. Coined by the kind of young brats of officers we were talking about.’
‘But’ – Otto put his last question facetiously – ‘Do we know when this Death Ride is scheduled to take place?’
The doctor shook his head. ‘Only that it can’t be long delayed. I’d guess a day or two, no more. And you see, it’s much more than the honour of the Navy at stake, although that’s the great issue that motivates our Chef der Seekriegsleitung.’ The reference was to von Scheer. ‘Way beyond that, it’s to avert revolution – meaning amongst other things the loss of privilege and advantage enjoyed by – well, by him, and his friends – admirals, generals, rich industrialists, right-wing politicians, landed families such as’ – shrugging – ‘well, not to put too fine a point on it, such as yours, von Mettendorff.’
‘And the government—’
‘Aren’t being told about it, or asked. Nobody’s being asked, and no signals are being sent that might give the game away.’
He’d got through to the house in Oldenburg before dinner last night, introducing himself as a friend of Fraulein Becht. ‘I had the pleasure of meeting you, Frau Mueller, not so long ago, when I called for her at your house.’
‘She’s not here this weekend, however.’
‘No. I spoke to someone at her place of work. She’s in Hamburg, I was told. I only wondered—’
‘She’ll be back tomorrow night, possibly quite late. If you like, I’ll tell her that you called. Your name – I didn’t catch—’
‘Von Mettendorff, Oberleutnant zu See. But I thought you might know of a number in Hamburg at which I could contact her.’
‘I’m sorry, Herr Oberleutnant, but we do not.’
Firmly, as if protecting her lodger’s privacy: the tone implying that she wouldn’t tell him even if they did have a number for her.
Maybe had been snooping around in the dark when he’d brought her back from Kramer’s?
‘I’ll call tomorrow evening, then.’
‘On Monday at her office might be better. My husband and I retire early, and she may not be here until quite late. I’ll leave a note that you called, in any case. Goodnight, Herr Oberleutnant.’
Probably got a lot of calls for her, he guessed. When he’d brought her home from Kramer’s that evening the whole place had been in darkness; he felt sure they had retired.
Last night would not have been so good, he realised now. But today – well, telephone the parents – or try to – and also Gerda, give her a buzz. She was in Berlin now, working at the Foreign Office on the Wilhelmstrasse and renting an apartment close by. Only a few hundred metres, in fact, from the apartment Leo Schneider had had the use of and had lent to Otto at the time of the English girl. Not that Schneider, who was a bit of a prig – or had been – had known anything about her. He remembered telling him in the Mess when he came back from that leave – with no more than an hour to spare, as it happened, since he’d had to stay over to the Monday in Berlin in order to buy some new sheets, expensive ones that had left him on his uppers until next pay day – ‘You’re my maiden aunt, would you believe it?’
Schneider had glanced up from the newspaper he’d been reading; aware that he was having his leg pulled in some way, and cautiously delaying reaction. This had been at the U-boat officers’ training establishment at Kiel, in the summer of ’13. Otto had explained the reference to a maiden aunt: ‘Aunty as owner of that very nice apartment. If I’d said it belonged to a brother officer, she might have smelt a rat.’
Schneider had shrugged. ‘She was listening to one, anyway. And by now I dare say she knows it. But for your information, the apartment doesn’t belong to any brother officer, it belongs to my mother, who would be extremely angry if she got to know that it had been used for immoral purposes.’
‘Meaning that although you have the use of it whenever you want, you don’t?’
‘Meaning that not everyone is like you, von Mettendorff, and that I shan’t lend you the flat again.’ One hand out and a snap of the fingers: ‘The key, please.’
‘In my cabin. I’ll put it in yours when I’m up there.’
‘Well – see that you do. Anyway – was it worth the effort?’
‘Worth it?’ He’d rested a hand on his friend’s shoulder for a moment. ‘It was the best ever!’
He’d thought so at the time. Then, there, in those moments. And she…
He remembered Schneider’s facial expression – or expressions – when he’d told him that: the conflict of disapproval and prurient interest, even envy.
Dead now, poor Leo. He’d been Otto Steinkamp’s first lieutenant in a minelayer and they’d not returned from an operation in the Thames estuary a year ago. Several UCs had been lost in those waters in the past year or eighteen months. And Leo had as like as not died a virgin. Sitting up there polishing his halo now, wishing he’d taken his chances when he’d had them.
Otto had never told anyone about the English girl. Not at any rate about her being English. Even in ’13, England had been the enemy. Although to him she’d only been Gerda’s friend, who spoke perfect German, was extremely attractive and a lot of fun. Gerda had told him all that before he’d ever set eyes on her, had insisted that he and she would get on like nobody’s business. No doubt telling her English friend how she’d love him.
‘Otto, do please come?’
Over the telephone, this had been, when he’d been staying with other friends and she’d wanted him to spend the last few days of his leave at home. Before this she’d mentioned the girl in a letter from the Berlitz school at Frankfurt, but he’d had no reason to take notice. He’d asked her over the ’phone, though, on this later occasion, ‘How do the parents take to her?’
‘Papa certainly does. And you know how he can be about the English! Mama tends to fix her with the famous steely glare, but I think approves of her – or would if Papa wouldn’t keep twirling his moustache at her, and that’s not her fault. She and I giggle about it like mad things when we’re on our own. We’ve been riding a lot – all over the countryside – and bathing in the lakes. It’s so warm… Otto, listen, she’ll be here all this next week – until Saturday, when she leaves for Scotland. If you meet her just on her last day or two you’ll kick yourself you didn’t get here sooner!’
He’d dozed off – almost – returning to full consciousness asking himself why he was thinking about that girl so much after five long years. First dreaming of her at sea, then almost telling Hintenberger about her the other day.
Because he was so desperate for Helena, he supposed. Shutting his eyes again, filling his mind with her.
He’d had his check-up from Franz Stolzenburg soon after breakfast, Franz summing up by telling him that despite the bruising he was as strong as a horse, but that if he liked he’d prescribe a week off duty.
‘Not much point. My boat’s laid-up, and there’s no other job for me.’ Second thoughts, then: ‘Except – no. Please do put that in.’
‘To avoid a big-ship appointment, by any chance?’
It had come up last evening, after talk about the shortage of competent middle-rank officers in the battle fleet, a conjecture that with all U-boats withdrawn from patrol there’d be a number of officers of the kind they so badly needed available for transfer to the surface fleet. In fact it didn’t seem to be turning out that way, since returning boats were being sent out again as soon as they’d embarked stores, water and torpedoes, but in his own case – well, that was a truly horrible prospect, which one should certainly take any possible steps to avoid.
Stuffing shirt-tails into his trousers, he’d asked Stolzenburg, ‘Make it ten days, rather than a week?’
‘Well, why not…’
The Sunday church parade was taking place – guard and band, drilling and inspection of base personnel and crews of ships that were still in harbour as distinct from those out in the Roads, a march-past then en route to church, with the salute taken by some admiral. Several of the big ships were still in harbour, he noted, identifying from a distance the battle cruisers Derfflinger and Von der Tann, and beyond them battleships Markgraf and Konig Albert. And another he wasn’t sure of… Oh, Baden, Hipper’s flagship. They’d be moving out to the Schillig Roads soon, presumably. He gave the drill area a wide berth in making his way down to the basin where UB81 was still lying. She’d be shifted in a day or so, Schwaeble had said, when the dockyard people were ready for her, but for the time being they had their hands full, and here she was – with Torpedoman Wernegger on sentry duty at the gangway and Claus Stahl at the wardroom table struggling with paperwork.
Otto told him, ‘Don’t move. You all right, though?’
‘I’m fine. Supposed to report for a medical check at noon, but – nothing wrong with me, so—’
‘Don’t tell ’em that. Be tired, Claus. Unless you want to accompany the Hochseeflotte on its death-ride.’
‘Did hear something about that. But why on earth should I—’
‘Once this boat’s in dockyard hands – or maybe even sooner – there’s a danger you and I might be appointed to some battle-wagon. They’re blaming the crews’ indiscipline on a shortage of capable middle-rank officers – meaning chaps like you and me, who are not by nature or inclination big-ship types. I’ve had my check-up, and the report’s going to say I need ten days’ rest. Just sag a bit and look tired out, you’ll get the same if you ask nicely.’
‘That’s a good tip.’
‘Ten days from now, heaven knows how things may be. Here and now, I need the control-room log and Hofbauer’s navigational notebook – for the patrol report.’
‘In the safe. I’ll get ’em.’
Otto got out a couple of charts that he’d also need. He had the shape of the thing in mind, based on his oral report yesterday to Schwaeble; only in order not to bore them all to tears he’d pare it down to short paragraphs of bare facts, times, positions, actions and reasons for decisions taken. He’d expand only on his crew’s exemplary conduct under difficult and hazardous conditions. And stress the part played by old Hintenberger. He told Stahl when he came back with the logs, ‘I intend recommending all hands for gallantry awards. Including you, naturally.’
‘Very decent of you, sir. Krieger Verdienstredaille for you, if there’s any justice.’
‘Never know, do you. But I shan’t be counting on it.’
‘First Class in gold, I’d say.’
‘Now that’s not likely!’
He was looking forward to Monday evening more than anything else. Sunday night or Monday morning, even, to hearing her voice and – he hoped – her pleasure at hearing his. Trying not to envisage disappointment – change of mind or heart or whatever you might call it. That degree of disappointment would be positively shattering, the possibility needed to be kept right out of mind… Snake Pit, though – didn’t have to be only Monday night. If Monday came up to scratch – and one would make sure it did – make it all the evenings she could spare. Funds were adequate – it was a long time since he’d spent a penny, except on Mess bills – and anything could be happening by next weekend. Flottenvorstoss might have been a victory, defeat or non-event, the war itself – well, armistice, surrender…
Sickening – almost literally so. Unbelievable, hard to convince oneself this was how things were, what they’d come down to; but all of it was either happening or imminent. Anything on the cards. What on earth one would do thereafter…
Think about that when the time came. At least one had a home to go to. Even land to work. Might do something of that sort, at least for a while.
If the family were able to retain their land?
Glancing round at Stahl – he himself working at the chart table – ‘Thought I’d visit our lads in the hospital this afternoon. Like to come along?’
‘Yes. I would, sir.’
‘Start from the Mess after lunch, then. Two-ish. The walk’ll do us good.’
Back to his report: winding up detail of his sinking of the Dutch collier off southwest Ireland and the depthcharge attack by Yank destroyers. Two torpedoes expended on the Dutchman, leaving the two re-loads for the depot ship near Eddystone.
‘Oberleutnant von Mettendorff – sir?’
‘Uh?’ Looking to his left – at a sailor, messenger, whom he recognised as the leading writer from Schwaeble’s, or rather Michelsen’s outer office: smart, intelligent-looking, he’d recognised him too.
‘Kapitan zu See Schwaeble’s compliments, sir, he’d be glad if you’d join him in the bar of the officer’s Mess at twelve forty-five.’
A nod. ‘Thank him, say I’ll be there.’
Better get a move on, get this done with. Still hadn’t telephoned Gerda or the parents. He’d muttered, ‘Wonder what that’s in aid of.’
‘Wants to buy you a drink, I’d say.’
‘Or invite me to volunteer for the death-ride. Listen – on the subject of recommendations, I’m putting you up for the command course. Although whether or not there’ll ever be another one…’
‘I’m immensely grateful, sir.’
She wouldn’t have belted off to Hamburg on her own, he thought. On the other hand, having only met her twice and taken her to dinner once, he could hardly claim exclusivity. Would like to – would give his right arm to, but—
Best of all would be to discover she hadn’t gone there with anyone at all. But, he warned himself, Don’t count on it…
He finished the report in time to make his telephone calls before the lunchtime meeting with Schwaeble. Went up to the Mess to find a telephone he might use, ran into Paul Deuker, the paymaster, who’d very kindly unlocked the staff office from which he’d rung Helena’s landlady last evening.
‘Service call, is it?’
‘Not really. Long-distance to my people.’
‘Well, if you’re asked, give ’em your name. But they don’t usually bother.’
There was no reply from Gerda’s flat in Berlin. No reason there should be, of course, on a Sunday. She might even be at work, but she didn’t like to receive private calls there. He got back to the exchange and gave them his home number – longer-distance still, but the operator obviously didn’t give a damn.
Ringing. Longish silence then. Another ring… Then a rattling sound, harsh breathing, and old Drendel, Papa’s long-time butler, piping up with: ‘The Mettendorff residence, who is it that’s calling?’
‘Otto von Mettendorff, Sergeant – calling long-distance. Still fighting fit, are you?’
‘Why, Herr Otto! Yes, I’m in good health. And you?’ Wheezy chuckle: ‘Still sending the swine to the bottom in short order, I hope?’
‘Doing my best to, Sergeant. But is my mother—’
‘Yes. Please hold, I’ll—’
‘Either of them, if—’
He’d gone.
Papa commanded a remount depot and riding-school near Halle, in the rank of lieutenant-colonel. In his mid-sixties, it wasn’t bad to have got a war job of any kind, and he was good at it; as Gerda had remarked not long ago, he got on better with horses than he did with people. While old Drendel, known to the household as Sergeant Drendel, was close to seventy. He’d lost a leg at St Quentin only a week before the French surrender in 1871, had stumped around on a wooden one ever since.
‘Otto?’
Slightly quavery high tone, and an impression of astonishment, as if she’d thought he might be dead. As indeed he might have been. And it was a long time since he’d been in touch with them; communications out of Bruges hadn’t been all that good. Telling her now, ‘Splendid to hear your voice, Mama – and sounding strong, you’re obviously in good health and heart. Listen – in case we’re cut off – this is long-distance – I’m only calling to ask how you both are, and let you know I’m in good shape. Happen to be on dry land and near a telephone that works, for once… You are well, are you?’
‘I am – quite well, thank you, Otto. Your father too. He’s at his depot, of course. Have you sunk more English since we last heard from you?’
‘Two in this last week, as it happens. Got slightly dented in the course of it, so for a while I’m land-bound. I’m so glad you’re bearing up, Mama – and the Sergeant sounds his usual self—’
‘We’re fortunate, of course, in that we have our own produce – eggs, poultry, cereals and – you know… The ice-house is well stocked. But the country as a whole, in the towns especially—’
‘Turnips as the staple diet, so I heard.’
‘Thanks to the damned English! And we hear now our so-called government’s begging for an armistice! Going on bended knees to the Americans!’
‘I don’t know about bended knees, but – yes, I gather… Mama, is Gerda all right?’
‘You didn’t hear, then.’
‘Hear what?’
‘Heinrich – the week before last—’
‘What? Shot down?’
‘Killed, anyway. He used just to laugh when I told him how frightfully dangerous—’
‘Poor old Heinrich.’ Gerda’s husband, Heinrich Hesse, when Otto had last heard of him, had been leading a squadron of Albatross fighters. ‘Or rather, poor Gerda. Damn it all. I tried to call her a few minutes ago. Oh, really, that’s too bad!’
‘She’s devastated. Devastated. Otto, you look after yourself now. We want you home safe and sound. And soon. Isn’t it time you had leave? Look, take some, go to Berlin, give her a shoulder to cry on and then bring her home. Those things you go about in – submarines – why, they’re worse than—’
He cut in with an assurance that the modern submarines were as safe as houses. Safer, in fact. But that if the armistice negotiations got anywhere he’d be home the first minute he could in any case. And yes, would see poor Gerda. But he had to run now. He’d try to get through to her this afternoon. If by chance she spoke to her before he did, please give her his love and deepest commiserations. And love and respects to Papa, of course.
He hung up. Glad to have heard about Heinrich before speaking to Gerda, who’d be lost without that fellow.
‘Ah – von Mettendorff.’
The group around Schwaeble opened up to let Otto through. There were a dozen or fifteen officers in the bar, all with glasses in their hands – a few had beers but it was mostly schnapps. Schwaeble said, ‘I’m in the chair, what’ll you have?’
‘Well – thank you, sir. Schnapps, I think.’
He’d gestured to the steward, now looked back at Otto. ‘Any particular reason to look so damn miserable?’
Smiles and chuckles all round. Glasses all full but no-one actually drinking yet. He nodded to Schwaeble. ‘Heard only a minute ago that my brother-in-law was shot down – killed – week before last. I don’t know where. He was commanding a fighter squadron.’
‘I’m extremely sorry, von Mettendorff.’ The steward came with Otto’s drink on a silver-plated tray. There’d been a general murmuring of sympathy. Schwaeble held up his glass: ‘Our first toast then, to that brave man. What was his name?’
‘Hesse. Heinrich Hesse.’
‘To his memory and honour!’
They drank to him, Otto restraining a sudden and unexpected urge to weep. The schnapps’ fire in his throat might have served as cover for such a lapse, but in fact the excuse of it wasn’t needed: he’d regained control and Schwaeble was raising his glass again.
‘Gentlemen! We drink to Kapitan-Leutnant Otto von Mettendorff!’
Shouts of applause, before the glasses were emptied. Otto hearing it all, of course, but with Gerda’s misery still in his mind needing a second or two to catch on to what Schwaeble had just told him, that he’d been promoted from senior lieutenant to lieutenant-commander. Schwaeble booming now, ‘Well deserved, at that.’ Signalling to the steward, this time indicating only his own glass and Otto’s. ‘Your promotion comes with Kommodore Michelsen’s personal congratulations. I had him on the telephone this morning. Incidentally, what about your patrol report?’
Otto took the wad of foolscap from an inside pocket. ‘Haven’t access to a typewriting machine, unfortunately.’
‘I’ll get it done. Drop by the Kommodore’s office tomorrow forenoon to sign the copies.’
‘Aye, sir. Your health. With your permission, the next round’s mine.’
Helena would be entertained at the Snake Pit by a kapitan-leutnant, he was thinking, not a mere oberleutnant. That shouldn’t exactly spoil one’s chances.