Hans Tutte listens.
"Too big," says the first officer. "The new British corvettes and frigates turn on a sixpence. They'd get you in a clumsy big thing like this."
"All right for a straight fight with twenty knots, though," said the second thoughtfully. "Fast run in, no noise, torpedoes away, fast run out again."
The engineer is both thrilled and subdued. "Wonderful, if it all hangs together. But burn anything out at sea, and it would be a dockyard job."
"If the Royal Navy ever let you get home," said the first grimly.
"But she's big, and she'll be wonderful for the crew. The lack of confined space will keep up their morale wonderfully."
Hans Tutte leans against the periscope housing and weighs up the experience of his veteran U-boat men.
He says suddenly: "How long do you think men can stay submerged and retain their fighting efficiency? Number One?"
"You mean, sir, in relation to this, or the standard U-boat?"
"This."
"No surface, no action, just submerged?"
"Yes."
No. One pauses. "At a guess, I'd say twenty days."
Tutte surveys him judicially. "Number Two?"
"Maybe a month, but they'd be no match for anything when we came up."
"Engineer?"
"It's easier in the engine-room, sir. There's always something to keep my men fully occupied. Small things go wrong and need fixing. But a month is a long time… "
"Gentlemen," says Tutte coldly. "I have orders to carry out a cruise — without surfacing at all if possible."
The others gaze at him silently. He knows what is running through their minds, and the same doubts about morale and fighting efficiency are in his.
"No base," he added.
Number One coughs discreetly. "And the length of the cruise, sir?"
Tutte eyes him grimly. "The equivalent of once round the world — with action."
The U-boat service is too well disciplined to vent its surprise and dismay. Then Tutte smiles the smile for which his crew would follow him to the ends of the earth.
"I think, too, we must have a base, if it's only to surface and relax and see the sun. Not necessarily a naval base, for we have all our stores and torpedoes, but a base to relax in.
The U-boat Command disagrees with that. "Perhaps" he grins knowingly at his trusted officers — "once we are at sea the High Command might relent."
I sat long with this imaginary scene in my mind. Was it wishful thinking? I asked myself. I for one would have put forward the argument, as a submarine captain, of the need to relax and surface. What would happen in the interior of a submarine after a month under water? True, in NP I the air would not foul as in ordinary craft, but what about the stink of humanity, the accumulation of refuse if operating in enemy waters, and the green slime which would coat everything inside the U-boat? What would happen to the physical state of the men themselves? Would they get sick from some as yet unknown effects of long submersion? And — this was a wayward thought — was NP I quite foolproof in her machinery? Might there not be some poisonous exudation from this new-fangled nuclear propulsion? It came to me as I sat there in the pleasant sunshine that, perfect though NP I might be mechanically, the human element, particularly the human element trained in more conventional craft, would not stand up to the strain of the war at sea as well as her designers thought. NP I must find herself a haven, a nook away from the world. If I were Hans Tutte, that is what I would do. Somewhere safe to let the men smoke, swim and tan their bodies in the warm sun. This, I convinced myself, was the true Achilles heel of NP I. A base, a haven, a hidey-hole… she must have it.
The relief of having made some positive contribution to my problem was so great that it was some time before I realised that old Captain Peace was talking rationally. I saw that he was rational and his eyes had lost their uncomprehending look.
He stretched out his hand. "Geoffrey!" he exclaimed with pleasure. "Blast me, I never expected to have a real sailor at hand for my last voyage."
I muttered something about everything being well.
"Balls!" he said heartily. "I'm a dead duck, and you know it. What have you been doing with yourself? Why are you in England and not at sea? You didn't leave your submarine just to come and watch an old man die, did you?"
He rose up against his pillows with a burst of violent energy which had characterised him throughout his life.
England's enemies, beware of men like old Captain Peace, I thought to myself.
"No," I said steadily and I saw it cheered him at once. "Special orders."
"No tell, eh? "he laughed.
What the hell, I thought suddenly to myself. Why not tell him? He'd probably be dead before nightfall anyway. Somewhere in that vast accumulation of sea lore there might be something which would help me sink NP I. It would also help me, the unburdening of this terrible secret. I got up and closed the door.
I told him about my mission. I told him the details, the pros and the massive cons; I told him about Hans Tutte and what I would do in his place; I told him that I was convinced that NP I needed a base — of sorts. The old man's eyes gleamed and then filled with tears.
"Geoffrey," he said in a whisper. "It breaks my heart to know what England has against her, and I can't do a mortal bloody damn about it." Then the self-pity died out of his voice and he asked strongly: "Where is NP I going to operate?"
"In the South Atlantic," I replied.
"If only I had a ship," he exclaimed. "God, I know it like my hand. None of the islands. Plenty of skulking holes in South America, though, but not the place for a rest cure with that climate. I'd go for Africa, if it were me. Too many people around, too, and the Navy is not so stupid that it wouldn't search across the trade routes to Buenos Aires. That's what put Harwood on to the Graf Spee," he chuckled.
"Africa has the same disadvantages," I pointed out.
"Bad climate in the tropics, too many people. Even if they are blacks."
"South West Africa," cried the old man waving a pyjamaed arm." He was very excited.
"Not a harbour worth a damn between Tiger Bay, Walvis Bay and Cape Town," I said, bitterly disappointed now that I had mentioned the operation to a wandering old man on his death-bed. "I mentioned it to the Admiralty."
"God's truth!" roared the old sailor. "Admiralty! Why, that Captain Williams hydrographer-bastard wouldn't even look at my soundings. Get me a chart, boy — in my desk. No, not the Admiralty one — there's one of my own. What size is NP I? Three thousand tons? By the Lord Harry, she'd just about make it!"
He looked very excited and I slipped from the room. His desk was pure chaos. Papers, charts, maps, old ship chandler's orders, all kinds of nautical junk littered it. I rummaged about and saw a handwritten "last will and testament of Simon Peace, master mariner." I found what the old man must regard as "his chart " — it looked, at first glance, like a stretch to the south of Angola, heavily annotated with figures. I went back.
The moment I set foot in the room I knew what had happened. A glance at the mottled, congested face told its own story. I ran swiftly to the door and called for the nurse. He lay back gasping and coughing, like a seaman full of chlorine gas.
"He's trying to say something to you," said the nurse gently.
He spoke loudly.
"North?" I echoed. It sounded like north to me, but his voice was going.
"Twenty miles — north." He just couldn't get his failing voice round the last word. "North — north — north"
but it wasn't quite north, the way he said it. "Twenty miles south of north — big rock — twenty miles south of…"
The death rattle severed the last word.