The Passenger (5 page)

It was an astute observation. Echoes of the commander's habitual sarcasm could be heard in Juhl's speech, a hint of weary resignation, grim humor. The second watch officer raised his binoculars and studied the livid, pitiless expanse. ‘You may be right,' he muttered.

‘The wife's pregnant,' said Hoffmann.

‘Congratulations,' Juhl laughed. ‘When is the baby due?'

‘About now, sir.'

‘What do you want, a boy or a girl?'

‘I already have a son,' said Hoffmann. Suddenly, he seemed embarrassed by his personal disclosures. ‘This is shit. How long have we been at sea now, sir?'

‘Too long. Sometimes I feel like the Flying Dutchman . . .'

The boat continued along its course, the bow carving through the swell and producing two frothy trails. A faint melody drifted up through the hatch. Someone, probably Richter, was playing a ballad on the accordion, and Hoffman croaked along with the chorus, ‘
Embrasse-moi, embrasse-moi
.' The music had the effect of detaching Juhl from his surroundings, and he pictured the familiar smoky lounge of a Brest hotel, where a scrawny, aging chanteuse with a taste for revealing dresses frequently enacted the end of love affairs on a makeshift stage. He saw her superimposed on the waves, making violent gestures and shaking her mane of badly dyed hair. The vision absorbed him completely until one of the lookouts screamed—‘Aircraft! Sixty degrees!'—and Juhl was jolted back to reality. Even in the second or two it took to confirm the sighting the plane seemed to become inordinately large.

‘Alarm!' Juhl extended the cry until his lungs had no more air in them. The men scrambled into the tower, hardly making contact with the steps, sliding their hands down the ladder rails to guide their fall. Juhl followed. Boots landed on the matting with a loud thud. The bell was ringing, a bright continuous clamor.

In the control room Graf's voice was loud and urgent. ‘Flood! Flood! All hands forward.' The diesel engines were shut down, and the crew in the stern compartments ran toward the bow in order to increase its weight. Two men near the front stumbled and those running behind simply leaped over the sprawled bodies. The vents were opened, and the air that had been keeping the boat afloat was released, producing a bellicose roar, the dive tanks filled, and U-330 became heavier. As the hydroplane operators pressed their control buttons the deck angled downward and the pointer on the manometer began to move. Lorenz steadied himself by leaning against the silver shaft of the observation periscope. There was a loud booming noise as one final, rolling mass of water crashed against the tower, and then, apart from the gentle humming of the electric motors, silence prevailed.

In theory, they could achieve 150 meters in thirty seconds, but this assumed optimal levels of performance from the crew, and human beings were not machines.

Depending on conditions a U-boat might be detectable as a shadow even at a depth of sixty meters. A direct hit wasn't necessary to destroy a U-boat. Anywhere within the parameters of a mathematically defined ‘lethal radius' the laws of physics would allow a shock wave, traveling though the dense medium of water, to rip the boat apart. Lorenz remembered visiting the Krupp shipyard in Kiel: so many rivets, so much welding. He was agonizingly aware of the numerous weak seams that made the boat vulnerable. The entire crew were cowed in readiness.

Two deafening explosions followed. Deck-plates jumped and water splashed in the bilges. Maps and compasses fell from the chart table, and the accordion smashed into the fore bulkhead. The depth charges had detonated over the bow, forcing the boat down and increasing the steepness of its dive.

‘Very accurate,' said Lorenz, almost approvingly. ‘This one's experienced.'

Graf glanced at the manometer and shouted orders at the hydroplane operators. Now they were descending too fast.
‘Motors, full speed.' The additional power failed to pull them out of the dive. ‘Damn it!' Graf addressed Lorenz. ‘We're not leveling off.' Fear blanched complexions like a rapidly spreading contagion.

There were two more explosions, the lights went out, and the hull rocked from side to side. Lorenz felt a hand on his shoulder. Long fingers tensed and the grip tightened. He couldn't recall a prior instance of the chief engineer choosing to express his solidarity with such a gesture and hoped that it was not intended as a private farewell. Flashlight beams flashed, and Lorenz was surprised to hear Graf's voice over the public-address system, ‘We're bow-heavy. All hands astern.' Graf wasn't standing behind Lorenz, he had moved away. The shimmering emergency lights came on as the men from the bow compartment clambered up the gradient and through the control room. Amid the subsequent commotion, Lorenz was not conscious of the exact moment when the hand on his shoulder released its grip; however, he was still curious enough to turn, and when he did so, he was bemused to find that he was staring only at pipes and cables.

The manometer pointer was slowing down, and the tilt of the boat was becoming less severe. Graf stepped toward Lorenz and said, ‘We're definitely getting back on an even keel. Thank God.' He wiped the sweat from his forehead.

‘Ninety meters,' said Lorenz. ‘He won't be able to see us now.'

‘Well, let's hope we're not leaving a nice oil slick for him to follow.'

A few seconds later the sound of dripping could be heard. Graf produced a flashlight and directed the beam close to the overhead on the port side. He lowered his gaze and studied the system of complex, serpentine pipes that descended to the matting next to the chart table. With his head tilted and his neck stretched, he looked like a mime artist. The regular beat of the droplets stopped. Graf shrugged, slid the flashlight back in his pocket, and returned to his former position in order to resume his scrutiny of the instruments.

‘We'll stay down here for a while,' said Lorenz. ‘He's bound to get bored and fly off. They always do. Airmen have no patience.'

Graf nodded. ‘All right, Kaleun, but not for too long.' He touched his ear to draw the commander's attention to a trickling sound that could be heard above the hum of the electric motors.

The deck plates rattled and somewhere in the boat a low creaking began. It recalled an earlier age of maritime adventure, taut ropes and the complaining timbers of a galleon. One of the hydroplane operators looked over his shoulder, his face pinched by a flicker of anxiety. There was a sharp crack, like a gunshot, that seemed to come from the petty officers' quarters. ‘The woodwork,' said Lorenz. ‘That's odd.'

‘We're only at ninety meters,' said Graf.

There was a prolonged rumble like the sound of a distant storm: hammerings and a sudden, sonorous clang. Lorenz struggled to reconcile the depth reading on the manometer with the ominous noises. It was difficult not to think of the cold, dark water, pressing against the 2.5 cm metal hull, weighing down from above—squeezing the gunwales—unimaginable tonnage. It was how most U-boat men died in the end—a long, fatal descent—crushed to death, when the circular frames gave way, and the pressure hull collapsed.

A metallic groan increased in volume until it became a horrible yowl. The sound conjured up images of torment, medieval depictions of writhing bodies and winged devils. Then, a jet of water spurted horizontally from a point above the hydroplane operators. It was so powerful that it crossed most of the control room before curving downward to hit the matting.

Several voices screamed in unison, ‘Breach!'

‘I'll deal with it.' The control room mate leaped up and with the assistance of Müller, they endeavored to repair the rupture.

Before calm had been restored a diesel-hand appeared. ‘Herr Kaleun, air valve leaking badly.'

Lorenz looked at Graf. ‘What's happening? It feels like we're in the cellar.'
The cellar
was the term that they used to describe depths below 250 meters; depths at which the metal casing between the armored sections of the boat would buckle.

Two thin sprays discharged into the atmosphere. The air misted, and halos appeared around the lights. Graf found the source and beckoned Richter. ‘Secure this rivet—quick as you can. If it shoots out it'll travel faster than a bullet.'

Another shout from astern: ‘Breach in the diesel room.'

Lorenz struck the conning tower ladder with his fist and swore. ‘Shit.'

The pointer of the manometer was quivering slightly. Lorenz leaned closer and, reaching out, tapped the glass with his finger. It was an action that resonated with a distant memory of his grandfather. The old fellow had been in the habit of coaxing a sluggish barometer into life by employing the same technique—a dial mounted on carved wood, a brass rim that had blackened with age—Lorenz could remember the object in minute detail.

The quivering pointer suddenly jumped.

One hundred and fifteen
. . .

Yet, the boat clearly wasn't sinking.

‘Fuck,' said Graf. ‘The pointer must have been stuck.'

They looked on in horror as their actual depth was revealed.

One hundred and twenty, one hundred and thirty meters
. . .

The pointer on the dial face moved from the orange arc into the red.

One hundred and eighty meters, one hundred and ninety meters
. . .

An eternity seemed to elapse before the pointer finally came to rest at 210 meters—well over twice the depth of the shipyard's safety guarantee.

Lorenz was surrounded by bloodless faces, waxy death masks floating in space. They were all thinking the same thing: so much water above them, so much weight. One of the men was nervously clawing at his skin, and another had developed a tic. Yet, none of
those gathered around the manometer lost control. The veneer of competence and firmness of purpose did not fracture. Vice Admiral Dönitz's dictum had been drummed into them: the men of a U-boat crew were a ‘community of fate'—their lives were in each other's hands.

Joint responsibility strengthened their determination, but every commander understood that indoctrination, even when thorough, could not prohibit fear indefinitely. There would always be a breaking point.

‘Prepare to surface,' said Lorenz.

The watch reassembled beneath the tower. Graf issued instructions to the hydroplane operators, and compressed air was released into the buoyancy tanks. The manometer pointer remained fixed at 210 meters. ‘Come on!' Lorenz growled. He rapped his knuckle against the glass. Metal moaned and the hull shivered. Every member of the crew was willing the boat to rise. The manometer pointer started to move, so slowly at first that its progress was barely discernible.

One hundred and eighty-five, One hundred and eighty
. . .

The men in the control room closed their eyes and sighed with relief, and those among them who believed in a watchful intercessory God offered silent thanks.

Lorenz grinned at Graf.

The chief engineer frowned and said, ‘We're not there yet, Kaleun.' His forehead was glistening with perspiration.

‘Ever the optimist,' Lorenz replied. ‘Take her up to forty-five meters.' He ordered the helmsman to zigzag at this depth before calling out, ‘Twenty-five.' Then, Lorenz swung through the fore bulkhead hatchway and crouched outside the sound room. Lehmann was turning his hand wheel this way, then that, and listening intently through his headphones. He was leaning forward, eyes raised, as if he could see through the overhead and all the way to the surface. This looking heavenward might have suggested religious transport, but his gaunt features were lit from below, producing a rather sinister, ghoulish effect.

‘Can you hear anything?' asked Lorenz.

‘No,' Lehmann replied, ‘nothing at all.'

‘Good.' Lorenz returned to the control room through the hatchway and called out, ‘Periscope depth.' Graf reduced speed to minimize vibrations, and Lorenz sat on the periscope saddle. He unfolded the hand grips, closed his left eye, and pressed the orbit of his right eye against the rubber circlet of the ocular lens. After adjusting the magnification and the angle of the mirror he studied the dark bands of clouds. The sky vanished as the periscope dipped beneath the surface. ‘Depth-keeping, please,' said Lorenz, mildly irritated. Graf apologized, and a few moments later the top of the periscope cleared the waves once again. Visibility could have been better, but Lorenz was fairly confident that the aircraft had gone. ‘We live to fight another day. Surface!' Over the hissing of compressed air the crew began conversing normally. ‘Equalize pressure,' said Graf. ‘Man the bilge pumps.' The dispersal of tension was the cause of much hysterical laughter. Eventually, the sea could be heard outside and the diesel engines were engaged. Lorenz ascended the conning tower ladder and opened the hatch. Fresh air poured into the boat, dispelling the stink of fear. He could hear Juhl coming up behind him, singing ‘Embrasse-moi.'

When the boat was back on course, and all the routine procedures restored, Lorenz summoned Graf: ‘Well? What are we going to do about that manometer?'

‘I'll check it, Kaleun,' said the chief engineer.

‘Yes,' said Lorenz, ‘I think you'd better.'

Later, Lorenz retired to his nook. The entry he made in his war diary was telegraphic and devoid of drama: ‘15.35 Attacked by aircraft. Four depth charges. Minor damage.' He lay back on the mattress and remembered the lights going out in the control room, the hand landing heavily on his shoulder. Another sensation had registered at the time, but since then he'd been far too distracted to think about it. Now he closed his eyes and recreated the moment, acknowledging a host of memories that had hitherto
been competing for attention among the marginalia of consciousness. The hand had been cold. He had felt frozen tendrils taking root in his flesh and curling around his bones, and the coldness had intensified as the long fingers tensed.