The Passenger (12 page)

T
HE LIGHTS HAD BEEN DIMMED
in all compartments. Lorenz stepped out of the forward torpedo room and made his way between the occupied bunks. He passed the officers' mess, the sound room, the radio shack—climbed through the forward compartment hatchway—and arrived in the control room. Graf
was standing by the periscope and Müller was studying charts. The crew looked at Lorenz but their expressions were curiously untenanted. Lorenz crossed the control room and ducked into the petty officers' quarters where the bunks were also fully occupied with sleeping men. As he passed though the galley Lorenz saw Werner at his stove. The cook was beating a thick red mixture with a whisk. His skin shone with a porcelain glaze, and the ticking revolutions of his wrist made him resemble a clockwork dummy. Lorenz continued, along the narrow gangway between the motionless diesel engines, and then into the motor room. Because the motors were relatively small and mostly concealed beneath the deck, this part of the boat appeared spacious and uncluttered. The lights flickered into darkness, and when they came on again they emitted a weak glow: a slow luminescence that diffused through the air like an expanding ink blot. Beyond the panels of the motor room Lorenz could see the rim of the rear torpedo tube. He paused and found that he was reluctant to go forward. Why was this part of the boat empty? Where had everyone gone? The sound of Werner's whisk suddenly stopped. Its abrupt termination created an odd impression, like stepping off a precipice. Everything seemed wrong, misaligned, disturbed by subtle discords. He tried to remember what he had been meaning to do, the purpose of his nocturnal wandering, but his memory was opaque—misted over with undefined anxieties. Unease made him turn on his heels, and the next instant he was looking into the eyes of the British commander. Sutherland's hands came up quickly and closed around Lorenz's neck. Weakness and terror made retaliation impossible. Lorenz tried to call for help but his windpipe was being crushed. Sutherland swung him around, pushed him against one of the electric motors, and tightened his grip. Their noses were almost touching.

‘Destruction is
your
purpose,' said Sutherland, repeating the words that Lorenz had used during their brief parley. ‘Destruction is
your
purpose as much as it is mine.' His voice was fortified by an
echo, the final iterations of which survived the dissolution of the dream. Lorenz stared at the overhead. He was breathing heavily but he could still hear waves breaking against the conning tower.

‘Herr Kaleun?' Brandt sounded anxious.

Lorenz's answer was poorly articulated. ‘Bran— . . . Brandt?'

‘Did you call for something, Kaleun?'

‘Yes,' Lorenz improvised. ‘I've got a murderous headache. Go and get Ziegler for me, will you? I need some pills.'

Lorenz sat up and swallowed with difficulty. He undid the top button of his shirt and pressed the flesh around his neck. It felt tender and sore. How could that be? Had he harmed himself in his sleep? Had the blanket twisted around his body as he tossed and turned?

‘Kaleun?' It was Ziegler. Lorenz raised his collar before pulling the curtain aside. ‘You wanted some aspirin?'

‘Yes,' said Lorenz hoarsely. ‘Thank you.'

T
HE WIND HAD ABATED AND
a dull, dejected light filtered through a ragged canopy of cloud. White lines spaced at regular intervals traveled across a malachite sea. Falk was looking through his binoculars, listening to Engel and Krausse's conversation. He was about to remind them of the need for constant vigilance, when curiosity got the better of him and he chose to remain silent.

‘So,' said Engel. ‘I was lying on a sofa in the Casino Bar, and Hauser—do you know him?—Commander of U-395—he asked Madam to show us one of her films. I'd heard about them but I'd never seen one. Hauser was very drunk and waving a bottle of champagne in the air. Madam said no and made some excuse or other; something about the girls not having had an opportunity to perform, I don't know. Anyway, Hauser wasn't put off. He kept on and on at her, begged and pleaded, said that his men had been at sea for so long they'd all forgotten how to fuck. “We need to be
reminded,” he said. Eventually, she gave in, and when Hauser and his crew went upstairs I followed them, just tagged along. Madam set up the projector, the lights went out, and the film started. Well, how can I put this? It was a real education. Perhaps the women in this film were freaks, you know? Like you'd find in a circus? Because they got themselves into positions that I didn't think were possible. And there was this incredible scene, set in what looked like a respectable drawing room, in which several large objects were laid out on the floor in front of this little brunette, she was tiny, no bigger than a child, and she . . .' Engel stopped. ‘Are we turning?'

‘I believe so,' said Falk.

‘Shit! I hope we're not going back into that storm.' Engel spat over the bulwark.

‘What's that?' said Sauer. ‘Starboard quarter forty-five degrees. In the water.'

The watchmen turned so that they were all facing in the same direction.

Falk raised his binoculars. ‘I can't see anything, Number One.'

‘Nor me,' Krausse agreed.

‘What did it look like?' asked Falk.

Sauer hesitated. ‘I thought I saw something . . .'

‘What?'

‘I'm not sure.'

‘But not a periscope,' said Falk.

‘No,' Sauer responded, ‘definitely not a periscope.'

‘All right,' said Falk. ‘Probably just flotsam. Stay alert.'

After a few minutes of silent observation had elapsed, Sauer heard the ladder thrumming—the sound of someone ascending. He stiffened and announced: ‘Captain on the bridge.' Lorenz climbed out of the conning tower and stood next to Falk: ‘New instructions from headquarters.'

Falk wiped the lenses of his binoculars. ‘A convoy?'

‘Over twenty ships. All U-boats: maximum speed. We're likely to get there first.'

‘How long will it take us, sir?'

‘Fourteen hours. Twelve hours if we're lucky. The weather forecast says the storm is moving north.'

‘Will you look at that,' shouted Engel. ‘God in heaven! Look at the size of it!'

Next to the boat the waves had been parted by something immense, rising up from below the surface—shiny, bluish-grey. It arched out of the sea and produced a waterspout that rose higher than the conning tower. A small dorsal fin preceded the appearance of broad, notched flukes. Within seconds the whale had disappeared, leaving only a transparent mist over a wide eddy.

Falk called down the communications pipe. ‘Hard a-port!' Lorenz nodded his approval and said, ‘A sensible precaution. We should give that monster a very wide berth. One swipe from that tail and our rudder will be off. Very good, Falk, I have the conn.'

The boat veered away but the creature almost immediately closed the gap. It could be seen through the transparency of the waves, a long, aquamarine shadow almost thirty meters in length. Once again, it surfaced and forced air through its blowhole.

‘Shoo, shoo,' said Engel, flicking his hands in the air as if he were trying to discourage a troublesome fly. They were all still laughing when Krausse hollered, ‘Aircraft, dead astern!'

Lorenz was about to shout ‘Alarm!' but the pilot had already commenced his attack run and it was far too late to dive. He grabbed the communications pipe: ‘Right, full rudder.' Falk leapt to the rear platform and manned the 2 cm flack cannon. The plane was coming at them low.

‘Oh, fuck,' hollered Falk. ‘The cannon's jammed.' He worked the charging mechanism to load the new round in the chamber. It still didn't work. Sauer calmly detached the magazine, smacked it on the breach and reseated it in the well: Falk jacked the action and swept the weapon around to track the fighter. With uncharacteristic agility, Sauer skipped out of the way and retrieved a spare magazine.

‘Evasive maneuvers,' Lorenz shouted into the hatch. The boat turned sharply and crashed into a high wave as the useless cannon traced a silent arc. Through a curtain of shimmering spray they watched the unhurried descent of four bombs. Three of them exploded off the starboard saddle tank, creating a line of tall fountains. The effect was ornamental, like a water feature in an eighteenth-century landscaped garden. A loud splitting noise made Lorenz look down from the bulwark in horror. The fourth bomb had landed on the painted wooden grating and was now bouncing toward the bridge. A shower of splinters followed each impact, and the bomb's progress was recorded by a trail of gouges in the deck. As the boat heeled and rolled, the lethal device slowed, swerved, and slid off the port side, its nose propeller still spinning madly. The pilot had flown so low that their faces had been momentarily warmed by hot exhaust fumes. So low, that the bomb hadn't fused. Lorenz gazed at the receding plane in stunned silence. He had expected it to bank and return, but instead the pilot followed a straight course over the sea.

‘Why isn't he coming back?' asked Engel.

‘He's used up all his bombs,' Lorenz answered.

‘God, that was close.' Engel took off his woolen hat and raked his hair.

‘It certainly was,' Lorenz agreed.

‘That last one,' said Sauer, ‘fancy it being a dud.'

‘A miracle,' said Engel.

‘Well, I wouldn't go that far,' said Lorenz. ‘However I . . .' As Lorenz looked up he was struck dumb by the appearance of another Martlet dropping out from beneath the cloud cover.

Krausse was screaming: ‘Aircraft astern!'

Again, it was too late to dive. Lorenz called into the communications pipe: ‘Hard a'starboard!'

Falk repositioned the flack cannon, took careful aim, depressed the firing lever, and swore: ‘You fucking hopeless piece of shit!' In frustration, he smacked the top of the breach with his fist and
was rewarded with a satisfying clunk. When he depressed the firing lever again the cannon roared to life, and a quick three-round burst was directed harmlessly into the ocean. He raised the barrel and emptied the rest of the magazine without even bothering to aim as the fighter flew past. The boat was turning quickly enough to ruin the pilot's attack run, and the plane passed at a safe distance. No bombs were released. The pitch of the plane's engine suddenly altered. There was a spluttering sound, then some distinctly unhealthy mechanical coughing, before the engine cut out altogether.

‘I got it!' Falk exclaimed. ‘I fucking got it!'

Lorenz watched, transfixed, as the Martlet's canopy slid back. ‘Get out,' he whispered. ‘Get out!'

The pilot negotiated a tight circle as he fought to maintain control, but the plane lost altitude, and one of its wing tips touched the water. It tumbled across the surface, disintegrating, and the pilot was ejected from his cockpit. He was still airborne when the fuel tanks exploded, and his body was engulfed by flames. Burning debris showered the bridge.

‘Full ahead,' shouted Lorenz.

They all scanned the sky, tense, and ready for the appearance of a third plane, but no more came. Some smoking wreckage bobbed up and down on the sea.

Falk pointed beyond their frothy wake. ‘Remarkable!' The great dark back of the whale was still visible. They could hear the blast of its waterspout before the massive tail sprung up and fanned the air. ‘We shouldn't let that monster distract us again.'

‘Quite,' said Lorenz. ‘Perhaps he's working for the British.'

‘Why didn't the bombs scare him?'

‘Perhaps he's deaf.'

‘I've a good mind to blow it out of the water. Werner could do with some fresh meat.' Falk rotated the flak canon. ‘Let's have a feast tonight.'

‘No,' said Engel. ‘Don't do that, sir. Poor beast: he doesn't mean us any harm. He probably thinks our boat is a female, that's all.'

‘Really, Engel,' said Falk. ‘You're completely preoccupied with sex!'

‘When I was Rylander's first watch officer,' said Lorenz, ‘we shot a polar bear and ate it.'

‘Did it taste any good?' asked Falk.

‘I've had worse meals in Hamburg,' said Lorenz. ‘Well done, Falk. Good shooting.'

‘That fourth bomb,' said Sauer, still trying to make sense of its provident failure to explode. 'Unbelievable. That's what I call lucky.'

‘Like I always say,' said Falk. ‘When your number's up, your number's up.' He secured the flak canon and tapped the rail a few times. ‘Our number wasn't up.'

WAR DIARY

12.50
Light swell. Cloudy but clear. Reasonable visibility. Smoke shadow bearing 115° true. Course around 120°. An aircraft in sight at bearing 115° true, roughly the same course.

13.30
Aircraft in sight, possibly a Sunderland. Bearing 180° true, course 130°. The aircraft turns and retraces its course.

13.40
A U-boat in sight at bearing 60° true. Closing.