zigzagging defensively in 40-degree turns. Hartmann adjusted the focus on the bridge’s firing binoculars: ‘Careless.’
Her deadlights were not pulled down over the ports and she was twinkling provocatively at the
‘Have the crew eaten?’
‘Yes, Herr Kaleu.’
‘Good. She’ll turn south-westerly and cross our course within the hour.’
The sea was building, a summer gale forecast. He would attack from the surface, the dark grey hull of the U-boat lost in the restless night.
The
‘Full ahead both engines. Course two-one-zero.’
The deck beneath Hartmann’s feet had trembled, the diesels hammering their battle song as the U-boat plunged forwards at attack speed, its bow rising in fine clouds of spray that swept across the foredeck and into the faces of the men atop the tower. Urgent, incessant, beating the length of the boat, from the crew quarters aft to the forward torpedo room, and every man’s heart beat with the engines, faster and faster and faster, an end to the poor hunting, an end to idle days of African sunshine. And the excitement had been plain in the faces of the watch and of the men squinting at the horizon from the rail of the gun platform, older than their years, weathered and lined by the sea and the tropical sun, their beards flecked white with salt. It was Hartmann’s first patrol as their commander but they knew of his record, that he had served with one of the great U-boat heroes — with Kapitan Mohr.
He had followed the wisp of grey smoke through the bridge’s firing binoculars until his eyes began to water and late in the afternoon he sent a signal to U-boat Headquarters:
TARGET LOCATED GRID SQUARE FF 71. IN PURSUIT. NO ESCORT. COURSE SOUTH WEST. FOURTEEN KNOTS.
And headquarters had replied:
AT THEM. ATTACK THEM. SINK THEM.
He had smiled quietly to himself because he knew it must have been written by the Admiral. It was pure Donitz.
‘Tubes one and three ready?’
‘Tubes one and three ready, Herr Kaleu.’
‘She’s turned. Steering 200 degrees, approximately twelve knots.’
Yes, she was a big ship, close to 20,000 tons, roughly camouflaged in grey, deck guns fore and aft and a watch searching the dark surface of the sea for an enemy bow wave.
‘Take her hull down.’
The order was repeated to the control room below and as the waist tanks of the submarine flooded the sea swept up the foredeck until only the tower was breaking the waves. They would catch the ship just before she turned again, broadside on, in — he glanced at his watch — perhaps six minutes.
‘Half engines.’
He could sense the intense excitement of the men about him, as they turned stiffly through the points of the compass, their glasses hunting the darkness for escort ships. He bent to the voice tube:
‘Stand by tubes one and three.’
In the ‘cave’ for’ard, the torpedo men would be clutching their stopwatches, ready to count out the seconds from release to impact. Anything between a thousand and three hundred metres would do. She was edging into the spider lines of Hartmann’s firing sight now, rising and falling gracefully in the swell, her bow cutting a crisp white wave. And as he followed her stately progress the heavy night cloud parted, catching her in silhouette against a bright sickle moon.
‘Twelve hundred metres.’
He could see sailors moving about her foredeck. There was a small yellow flash of light — one of them must have lit a cigarette.
‘A thousand metres.’
He heard a sharp intake of breath at his side and his heart leapt into his throat. Was she beginning to turn?
‘Steady, steady, there’s still time.’
Final bearing check, final distance check, and with his eyes still on the target he reached for the firing handle and pressed down with the full weight of his body.
‘Tube one: fire!’
The first torpedo was on its way.
‘Ready tube three: fire!’
And the second in its wake. Steel fish they called them for’ard, seven metres long, contact detonation and enough explosive to blow a hole in the side of the ship a bus could drive through.
‘Hard rudder right.’
The
‘Two minutes. One minute. Thirty seconds. Twenty seconds. Ten.’
Had he made a mistake? No. A hard little explosion, a column of white smoke and water rising like a glorious fountain up her side and cheering, he could hear the men cheering in the control room below. Thank God. Then the second torpedo burst through her plates and almost at once she began to heel to starboard. It was a small miracle. Twenty thousand tons of steel and wood brought to a standstill in seconds. The first torpedo must have struck her amidships in the hold — he could see the ragged hole in her side — and the second in or close to the engine room. A cold inexorable tide of water surging into her hull: the ship was surely doomed. He lifted his head from the glasses and leant over the tower hatch.
‘Has she given her name yet?’
‘No, Herr Kaleu.’ It was his first officer, Werner. ‘Will she need a third?’
‘No, she’s finished. Let’s take the boat a little closer and pick up her captain if we can.’
‘Perhaps we’ve bagged a regiment of British soldiers with two torpedoes.’
‘Perhaps.’
The sea was still building, the weather turning for the worse and with the ship listing heavily, swinging out and filling the lifeboats would be no easy task. But he could see the first of them slipping slowly down her side. There was the urgent ring of boots on the tower ladder behind him and he turned to find the chief wireless operator climbing on to the bridge, his signal board in hand.
‘Well, Weber?’
‘The liner’s sent a distress signal, Herr Kaleu. SSS. 06.54° south, 7.35° west. She’s the
‘Damn them.’
If the British picked up ‘SSS’ they would know the ship had been torpedoed and would assume the enemy submarine was still close by.
‘All right. Ready tube two. Let’s send her on her way.’
41
It clattered off a printer in Room 29 at the Citadel with the rest of the rip-and-read, no
