Cunningham gasped as his torch beam captured a partially uniformed skeleton, still propped up on the other side of the confined deck. The lower jaw was now relaxed, giving the skull a look of sheer horror. And a rusty metal pole, that he’d either fallen on, or had been pushed back on, had forced its way through skin, vital organs and bone, smashing ribs, and had exited out of the chest cavity. Nathan stood taking in the gruesome scene, thinking that it was a messy way for anyone to go. The thought sent a shiver up and down his spine, and all the way through Nathan’s body. He shone the spot-light down through the hatch, and into the main control room which, he soon discovered, was completely flooded.
Slowly he descended the ladder, down into the ice cold water inside the main control room. He checked his computer. On the bridge he was still at a depth of fifty-five feet and had only seventeen minutes of air left. This meant that he only had seven minutes inside the submarine. The remaining ten minutes would be needed to take him safely back to the spare air cylinder at the other end of the tunnel.
The submarine interior, although completely flooded, was in remarkably good condition. Nathan floated like an inert jellyfish in the middle of the dark and gloomy control room as he became more acclimatised to the cramped space. It was a reasonable assumption to Nathan, that the U-boat had come through the tunnel, and then docked in the cavern. But why? The extreme damage to the hull and conning tower did not match the orderly scene that he was now surveying inside. He was fully aware of the Nazi occupation of the island, and that there had been a lot of U-boat activity in the region due to the submarine pens at Brest, St Nazaire, Lorient, Bordeaux and Trondheim. But he was never aware of one on Jersey.
He could feel the excitement rising inside him once again. He’d heard the tales about strange things happening towards the end of the Second World War. About how a particular area on the northern shore of the island; had been made strictly out of bounds to all local residents and how if anyone was found there they were shot on sight.
The Nazis had also used local superstition and fear to keep people away from the Devil’s Hole; so called because of the weird and some say hellish sounds that can be heard coming up through the water and from within the granite itself. But Cunningham had never really believed in this story that was usually told by the older fishermen, and had discarded it as a fanciful yarn that was for the benefit of the tourists, after a few pints of ale.
He half swam, half pulled himself through the control room being careful not to disturb anything around him. As he moved around he noticed that the watertight doors, both aft and forward had been sealed off, and that this was the only evidence of there having been any crew members on board at the time of flooding. There were half a dozen rifles scattered around the bridge, as if their owners had dropped them in their haste to leave. The torch beam picked out a curved object lying in the sediment on the floor. It was just forward of the conning tower ladder. Swimming over he reached out with his gloved hand and grabbed hold of what remained of the gold braided peak of the Korvetenkapitan’s cap. Surprising that there was any trace at all after so many years, Cunningham thought as he turned to go.
He kicked off the floor and the sediment swirled up around him to reveal a flat silvery coloured briefcase. Instinctively, he reached for it, stirring up the sediment, and found himself clutching it, like a small child would. Who’s just been given a present and doesn’t want anyone to take it off him. A feeling of foreboding also washed over him, of something evil that had possibly taken place all those years ago, and suddenly he felt cold and vulnerable. It was as if he was trespassing, and shouldn’t be there. Checking his dive computer he saw that it was time to leave.
He made it with only a few minutes to spare. Bloody idiot, he said to himself, taking such a big risk at his age and he pulled himself out of the tunnel. He ascended slowly by the book, one foot per second, up the anchor chain, the briefcase tied to his weight belt, leaving the chain at thirty feet to swim under the boat to the stern platform.
Pulling off his fins he threw them onto the platform. Untied the briefcase and placed it carefully on the other side of the deck rail, and then wriggled out of his equipment, which was always the worst part. He was feeling his age, as he scrambled up the ladder and turned to haul his airtank and buoyancy harness on board. He then methodically stowed away the tank and other equipment as he always did. But on this occasion he was impatient to finish the job as quickly as possible. Going below he towelled himself dry, changed into a pair of casual trousers and a fresh shirt, and then poured himself a cup of coffee from his thermos. Back on deck, Nathan was sitting in one of the swivel chairs on the bridge. Thoughtfully staring at the silver briefcase on the table in front of him, and occasionally taking a sip from his coffee cup.
He could clearly see that the case was made from aluminium and in remarkably good condition for its age. Etched into the metal and across the centre of the lid was the red leaping devil and in the top right hand corner, the eagle and swastika of the German Kreigsmarine. There were two clips and a lock that had rusted, securing it together. The clips opened easily enough, but the lid remained securely locked, which left Nathan little choice. He took the small cordless drill from his toolbox and placed a six millimetre high speed metal drilling bit into the chuck. The small lock gave way and the core of it fell apart with the second hole that he drilled. A moment later he was able to slowly lift the lid open. The inside was completely dry, as he had expected it to be, the contents a few official documents two letters opened but still in their envelopes and a leather bound diary with the gold Kreigsmarine insignia stamped on the front, indicating that this was possibly the submarine’s log.
Cunningham’s grasp of the German language was at best, only schoolroom average. He opened the diary to the first entry that was dated 17th April 1945 with the heading, St Nazaire France. Below this a name, Korvetenkapitan’s Otto Sternberg, U683, the commander of the submarine and presumably the owner of this diary.
Nathan thumbed through the rest of the pages, becoming more and more annoyed with himself for being so slow to decipher the written German. There were numerous entries throughout the twenty-one pages that showed the U-boat’s final voyage. From the time that it had left port at St Nazaire in France. It soon became obvious from the entries, that the submarine had been sent out into the Atlantic Ocean and south towards Africa. At the Cape of Good Hope U683 had then changed course towards the North again, passing Madagascar on its way to the Red Sea. There were various notations on the 27th April as the submarine passed through the Suez Canal and out into the Mediterranean. This all seemed very odd to Nathan Cunningham as he sat there pondering over what he had just read, and he genuinely thought that he had translated the entries incorrectly. The route didn’t make much sense to him. It was certainly the long way round, but he thought they obviously had their reasons for embarking on such an arduous voyage, but to what end? Nathan flicked quickly to the last entry that was on the 8th May 1945. D-Day he thought. That was the effective end of Hitler’s Third Reich. If that were correct, then what on earth was U683 doing in a secret subterranean waterway under the Island of Jersey?
Cunningham sat there wondering what he was going to do with this phenomenal discovery, whom would he tell? Did he really want to share his secret? One thing he was certain about was that if news leaked out about such a find, then the island would be invaded within days or even hours with journalists, relic hunters and sightseers.