— well over an inch thick — it could withstand water pressures at over five hundred feet. I tapped it and the metal vibrated with a clang. The far side of the bulkhead was the torpedo stowage compartment. It was like looking at a baronial hall from the minstrels’ gallery. The floor lay some ten feet below me down a ladder. On either side was rack after rack of inert torpedoes, greasy and silver like canned sardines. The mud had been washed gently through the torpedo stowage compartment by year after year of tides. Some of the lowest torpedoes and several bodies had almost disappeared into the silt. I began to check each warhead. Giorgio stood behind me holding both lamps. We both knew that it was not a job without its dangers. At the end of the war the Germans were experimenting with many different types of firing mechanisms or ‘triggers’. There were acoustics, magnetics, electric eye, reflecting echo. It was not at all uncommon for a boat to have a mixed bag of weapons and we both knew that this was one of the most highly developed U-boats of the whole Nazi era.
‘Fourteen,’ I said to myself, chewing on the soft rubber mouthpiece. ‘That’s the lot.’ I ran a forefinger across my throat and pointed upwards. Giorgio nodded. Fourteen torpedoes checked. None of the warheads could contain packages: they weren’t hollow or full of currency; they were solid and deadly. I was disappointed; another theory had had a short life.
Giorgio gave me his electric lamp when we were back at the buckled bulkhead. He went up through the gun access trunking to the fore-deck. Giorgio’s last task was to go round the hull exterior to check the bow tubes. I had to go out the way we came in because of the lamp leads. I looked at my underwater watch.
Through the conning-tower hatch and over the 37-mm. gun platforms: the ocean seemed vast after the U- boat interior. I swam gently down to the sea floor holding both lamps under one arm. I looked up at the huge hulk. Still Giorgio hadn’t joined me. I floated easily through the dark water, using only my feet to propel me; I held the lamps to shine ahead. Dolphin: knees together. To be alone on the bed of the ocean at night was an unforgettable experience. The hull loomed over me, and I began to imagine that it was moving with the tide. My breathing starved again. I turned the tap to ‘equalize’, but now only half a bottle would pour into the empty bottle. Time was growing short. Where was Giorgio?
The electric light shone upon the grey metal, and fish and small crawling things scuttled out of the moving beam. I flipped a foot and glided forward past the three starboard bow caps. Around the bulbous snout the three tubes on the port side were closed. I stepped on to the deck. Above my head copious growths of weed swung from the jumping wire. I rested the rubber-clad lamps down in the mud in order to check my watch and compass.
There, inches away from my feet, was a flat, rectangular slab. The mud flurried around as I picked it up. It was a large, leather-bound log book. It was what we wanted more than anything, according to London. I must locate the anchor snag. It should be near the after hydroplane. I stuffed the log book under my harness and bent down to get the lamps.
The soles of Giorgio’s rubber flippers were only three or four feet away from the lamps. His face-mask and rubber mouthpiece were dangling on his chest. One arm of his rubber suit was ripped into several separate shreds and above him rose a thin grey cloud of blood.
28 The boat gets one
I equalized again for the last time, before my air began to starve, and left the tap open. I would have no further warnings of air shortage, but now I would need both hands. At that moment both the lamps went out, and a second or so later the cables came thudding around me. It meant there was no decision to make. I lifted Giorgio’s face and stuck the mouthpiece back into his mouth; he was unconscious, and it fell back on to his chest. I grabbed his armpit and gave a tentative shove off the sea bed with my foot. I pulled the ring on his harness to release the lead ballast and did the same with my own. Our heads broke through the ocean top. Wind ripped into my face like a blunt razor-blade. The splash of the waves broke the silence, and the cold biting into my head and shoulders made me suddenly aware of how frozen my body was in spite of the heavy woollen undersuit. I felt for the book and pushed it tighter under the straps. There was no sign of the boat. Whatever had caused them to jettison the lamps was serious and dangerous; but I had the log book.
Runnels of dirty white spume slipped down the waves, their black bulk leaned over us before butting us high on to their peaks. I turned Giorgio on his back and struck out towards the almost invisible shore-line. The sky was clear and star-filled. The Plough gave me more reliable bearings than did a glimpse of the coast from the crest of an occasional high wave. ‘Atropos,’ Giorgio suddenly shouted, and struck me a hard blow on the side of the neck with the edge of his palm. A wave, stronger than previous ones, shattered itself upon us and Giorgio wrenched himself free. He swam strongly southward for five or six strokes; then suddenly weakened and, as I grabbed for him, sank without any attempt to save himself. I got him about six feet under, and as we came up together it was hard to say who was nearer drowning. We spluttered and spat and finally I had him in tow again. Twice more he beat me about the head and shouted ‘Atropos, Atropos,’ and a gabble of Italian that I couldn’t even begin to translate. His attacks on me had done wonders for his breathing. Had he not been taking in such a lot of sea water through his open mouth his breathing would probably have become normal, but the loss of blood was making him weaker with every yard we travelled.
The tips of the waves were trepanned by the sharp wind and suffused about our heads with a constant hiss. We had been in the Atlantic for perhaps one and a half hours. Every part of me ached. For the first time I began to doubt if we could reach the shore-line. I stopped swimming, and, holding Giorgio tightly, tried to see the boat. The waves flung us up and down like a trampoline. I shouted to Giorgio. He turned his brown face towards me. His eyes were wide open and his mouth moved. ‘Atropos,’ he said weakly, ‘why is she putting the stars out?’
29 Entreaty
Giorgio’s head floated on my chest. ‘Hail Mary,’ he said faintly, ‘Hail Mary full of …’ — the sea smashed across his head like a beer bottle — ‘… grace the Lord is with …’ — he spluttered, coughed, and swallowed salt water — ‘… with thee. Blessed art thou among women …’ — Giorgio was lower in the water — ‘… and blessed is the fruit of thy womb …’ — so that I could hardly keep his head above the surface — ‘… Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us …’ The beach was ahead — ‘… sinners now and at …’ — the waves became breakers — ‘… the hour of our death.’
We were both spun under the surface. I felt the beach under my foot. Lost it. Touched again. A wave knocked us full length into the surf. I climbed to my feet, caught Giorgio under the armpits and dragged him inch by inch up the beach until he was clear of the sea. I was so heavy. Giorgio was so heavy. I wanted to sleep. I knew I must pump air into those water-logged lungs.
I rolled him over on to his face. His dentures fell into the spume.
30 Grave trouble
They were all at the house. They were sitting in the dining-room, heads between knees, gazing at the floor, and concentrating all their attention upon breathing long, aching lungsful of air. No one looked up as I entered. Charly had made coffee and put blankets around them, but had the good sense to say nothing.
‘Giorgio’s on the beach,’ I said, breathing between each syllable.
The old fisherman got slowly to his feet. ‘I’ll give you a hand,’ he said in Portuguese.
‘Have coffee first,’ I said. ‘Giorgio’s in no hurry, he died as we got ashore.’
‘Who tipped up the boat?’ Singleton said, after a few minutes.
‘Tell me,’ I said.
‘Well, either you or Giorgio tipped us over.’
I was finding it difficult not to get angry.
He added, ‘It was someone in frogman dress.’
