A minute later the second set of charges began to explode. This time they were correctly set for depth — that much was apparent. White-faced, with beads of perspiration on his forehead, the German waited. Then there was a shattering explosion that felt as though the boat had run her nose into a rock. Those of her crew that were standing were flung forward, clutching desperately at anything that they could. Although the main fuses remained intact, all the lights in the forepart of the ship were broken once again. Since, by her shape, the boat was best able to stand a shock from ahead, she had suffered far less than if the explosion had been on the beam or beneath her. What her crew could not know was that the shock had damaged the delicate mechanism in at least two of the torpedoes in her forward tubes.
Von Stolberg was coldly furious, and basically his anger was directed at himself. He had made a mistake, and the effect had nearly been disastrous. The three lost minutes had proved to be of paramount importance. The cold rage that possessed him made him determine to sink his adversary. But to do that he must come up from the depths. The destroyer, Braun informed him, had taken station astern once more. He supposed she was enjoying an interval for lunch: it was just the sort of crazy action he would expect from this particular ship. Already he was forming a very clear mental picture of the character of his foe. She was efficient, sometimes brilliantly so; but at the same time he had a feeling that she could be tricked by cunning. She was no plodder, but an improviser. Surely Germanic thoroughness should be able to defeat British originality?
He bent over the attack table and called to Schwachofer to help him.
"The Britisher must be sunk. We will assume that we have gone up to twenty meters, from where we can fire our torpedoes. Then what happens? The destroyer will decide to attack. It will first pass over us without dropping charges as it did just now, probably to ascertain our depth. We will turn, shall we say, to starboard. The destroyer will turn the same way as we turn, and at a range of about one thousand meters. Very well. We will fire a spread of four angled torpedoes. Let us work it out, Schwachofer. There, you see. One hundred, ninety, eighty, and seventy degrees angling. He will be beam-on to us, and one torpedo at least is bound to hit. With luck, two torpedoes."
"But first we must come to twenty meters."
"I think the British Captain has his lunch now, I know it will not be easy to blow the tanks without making so much noise that the destroyer will hear. But I do not ask you to carry out this delicate maneuver in twenty minutes. I give you one whole hour — perhaps more."
"I will do my best, Herr Kapitan. Shall I start blowing now?"
"Yes — very gently, Muller," the Kapitan called. "When we reach twenty meters prepare the four forward tubes for firing."
"How long shall I have, Herr Kapitan?"
"How the devil should I know? When the accursed destroyer attacks, I shall require them immediately."
Muller scuttled forward. The Kapitan was in a bad temper and he was thankful to be out of the way.
Slowly, stealthily, U-121 rose from the depths. In an hour and a quarter she was at twenty meters. It was then fifteen minutes past one, but she had to wait for a further two and a quarter hours before her intended prey made any move.
The atmosphere in the boat by that time was becoming foul — all of the air had already been through some man's lungs — and they had only been submerged for some nine hours. Men began sneaking to their lockers for a tablet of pervitin or caffein to stave off the awful soporific effect.
At last Braun made the long-awaited report. "Enemy speed increasing."
They could hear her moving up now, very close above their heads at this lesser depth. The roar of the propellers reached a climax.
"Starboard thirty," von Stolberg ordered. "Course three-oh-oh. Stand by tubes one to four. Oberleutnant von Holem, take charge of the attack table. Target red nine-oh. Speed one-five knots. Range one thousand meters. Torpedo speed forty knots. Depth five meters."
"Attack table lined up," von Holem replied, making the switch that connected the table to the gyrocompass.
"Follow attack table," the Kapitan ordered the forward torpedo room. The constantly changing firing settings were thus transmitted automatically to the torpedoes and set on their firing mechanisms.
Von Holem was watching the Kapitan, who in turn was watching the gyrocompass. The Kapitan nodded. The boat lurched.
"Torpedo running," Braun announced.
The boat lurched again.
"Torpedo running."
A third lurch. Silence. Every man in the control room waited.
"Torpedo not running," Braun said.
The Kapitan swore under his breath and the men swore aloud. The boat lurched again as the fourth torpedo left the tube.
"Torpedo running," and then in an excited cry: "Herr Kapitan, I'm getting torpedo hydrophone effect on the starboard beam. Bearing growing aft."
"Himmel! A rogue torpedo." To Schwachofer: "Emergency dive to one hundred meters."
The damaged gyro of the second torpedo had set it circling — more of a danger to the U-boat than ever it would be to the destroyer. A fractured pipe in the engine of the third torpedo had prevented its starting at all. The deadly weapon was sinking harmlessly into the depths below. Only numbers one and four were running correctly.
Mopping the sweat from their foreheads, the men of U-121 took her back into the depths.
The sun, that had been so welcome in the freshness of morning, now beat down mercilessly on the Hecate's unprotected bridge. Within its circumference there was only one spot of shade — at the front of the bridge, where there was a narrow charthouse. The air within this space was unbearably hot, but the sun rays could not strike into it directly; and it was in there that the Captain sat on the deck, using a duffle coat as a cushion. He had no qualms in seeking as much physical comfort as he could, for the rapid functioning of his own brain was as much a part of his ship's armament as the depth charges themselves.
As far as he could be certain, his attacks had achieved no result at all, and he had now only fifty depth charges left. He looked at his watch. Three o'clock. In nine hours he had used half his available ammunition, and it was quite possible that the underwater battle would go on until the following dawn.
He yawned and wished for the cool of the evening. The steady ping of the asdic, with its satisfactory pong, told that the target was still held, but it had an immensely soporific effect. His head felt heavy and his eyes closed, fluttered, and closed again. It was pleasant to imagine himself back in an English garden, with sunlight filtering through the trees. His wife was there, and the children, and the rabbit in the wire pen labeled "Daisy's End." Possibly there were many other little Daisies by now.
"Captain, sir." It was his First Lieutenant's voice.
"Yes, Number One?"
"Five minutes to fifteen thirty, sir."
"Thank you." He rose slowly and went out into the sun. "Tell the depth-charge parties to stand by, and warn the engine room." He turned to look at the empty sea ahead as the Hecate, gathering speed, crept up on her quarry. He was surprised by the asdic report that the U-boat was so near the surface. "Artful blighter," he remarked when it was plain that the enemy had turned to starboard as he had swept over her. Very well, he'd turn to starboard too. It would force the German to go full circle again and he might, by bluff, be able to get across him once more. Also, since the sub was shallow, there was less chance of error in the depth-charge settings. They might even blow her to the surface, and a glimpse of a gray hull among the exploding depth charges would be a rewarding sight.