U-BOAT 121 hurried over the sea. Driving her into the waves, the powerful Diesels shook her strong hull with vibration. As' the lean ship breasted a wave's crest, she would corkscrew wildly before plunging downward, leaving men's innards behind.
The stomach of Korvetten-kapitan Peter von Stolberg was not proof against such violent motion. After refusing his supper, he had turned into his bunk, where, with pills, he had tried to calm the queasiness within him. Only the urgent necessity of getting to a given position on the deserted ocean by a given time had caused him to make this high-speed dash on the surface. As he closed his eyes to shut out his misery he could see the shrewd, dynamic face of the Grand Admiral as he had briefed him on this mission.
"Raider M, the Cecilie, has captured a complete set of Allied ciphers. She is herself coming home, but we must insure against any risk of her non-arrival. She has been instructed to photograph the ciphers and transfer the films to you, for delivery to me here. You are to be in this position" — he indicated the chart between them — "by noon, local time, on the ninth of September, Herr Kapitan — and nothing must stop you. Nothing!" The little man had slammed his fist on the polished top of the great desk behind which he sat.
U-121 had sailed from Brest, apparently with plenty of time to make the rendezvous. But they had been spotted by a British escort group almost immediately and had been forced to travel submerged for almost eight hundred miles before they could shake the British off. Bad weather had further whittled down the margin to the point where there was now a bare eighteen hours to spare. For that reason the Kapitan was driving his ship and his men unmercifully.
The pills were working now, and the Kapitan slept. Above, Leutnant-zur-See Erich Kunz had the first watch. It was, he thought, a useless duty, for in no direction could his water-washed eyes see a thing. He was concerned only with keeping himself as dry as possible. Crash would go the long bow into the steep head sea, and the wave, roaring aft along the deck, would break in fury against the four-inch gun, sending masses of water pouring over the men crouched in the exposed conning tower.
A head and shoulders appeared through the hatch. "Radar operator says it's time to swing her, sir."
"Very well." Through the voice pipe Kunz ordered the alteration of course that would enable the radar to cover the arc that lay ten degrees on either side of the stern. The practice was to swing the boat twenty degrees to one side once every hour to make sure that nothing was astern.
A moment or two later the head and shoulders reappeared.
"Anything to report?" Kunz asked.
"The ground returns from the sea are so bad that the screen's cluttered up with false echoes, Herr Leutnant. There seems to be a ghost echo nine thousand meters astern — very indefinite."
"Anything would be in this weather. There're no ships here, and if there are we can't attack them."
"Shall I report to the Kapitan?"
"No — no. He will be angry if he is disturbed. Tell Radar to see if it's still there in an hour's time." The head and shoulders disappeared, and Kunz settled down to another hour of misery.
An hour later the ghost was still there.
Kunz ordered: "Tell the hydrophone operator to see if he can hear any asdic transmissions, and report to me."
Five minutes later the messenger was back again. "No transmissions audible, sir."
"Thank you." Kunz, satisfied that the radar had chosen this occasion to trot out one of the innumerable ghost echoes of which it was capable, continued to do his utmost to keep himself dry.
Kunz was relieved at midnight by Oberleutnant Otto von Holem. There was no love lost between these two. Kunz considered von Holem a useless sprig of the nobility, and von Holem thought Kunz beneath contempt. The exchange had been as short as duty permitted. At the last moment Kunz had paused halfway down the hatch. "Oberleutnant, there's a ghost echo on the radar nine thousand meters astern."
"You have reported it to the Kapitan?"
"No. The ghost has been there for three hours. It can be nothing else." He added from one rung farther down: "Anyway I thought you'd like the pleasure of stirring up that hornets' nest." The Kapitan's temper was notorious.
"Verfluchter Kerl" von Holem murmured and turned to duck as a solid sheet of water flung itself over the conning tower.
Four hours later von Holem was relieved by the Executive Officer, Oberleutnant Heini Schwachofer. The two officers stood for a moment looking over the long bow as it creamed into a wave. The wind was gone, and only a spatter of spray fell into the conning tower.
"Anything to report?"
"Nothing. A ghost echo turned up in Kunz's watch. Dead astern nine thousand. I nearly reported it to the Kapitan, but I'm sure it is a ghost. It's been there now for seven hours."
"I agree. It can't be the enemy. He's not the patient sort. Anyway there are no escorts in this part of the world. Sleep well, Otto."
Von Holem lowered himself down the hatch.
The watch dragged on. A pale sheen flitted on the advancing waves, and dawn crept over the ocean. Schwachofer glanced at his watch — twenty minutes past six — and, putting the binoculars to his eyes, he began a routine sweep. Jagged wave tops ahead, long valleys on the beam, the smooth backs of retreating waves astern and —
"Zum Teufel!" He lowered his glasses, wiped them hurriedly and looked again. Then he stretched out his hand and pressed the alarm for emergency diving stations. The strident roar of the klaxon, not heard for the last fortnight, filled the boat.
"Submarine diving, sir." The cry was taken up by many voices.
"Commence asdic sweep; steer two-four-oh; note the time, Pilot. Yeoman, get a position from the navigator and get this signal off to the Admiralty right away. Number One, sound off action stations and let me know as soon as seven minutes are up." The Captain's orders came crisply and with certainty.
The telephone from the radar cabinet buzzed. The Captain raised the handset. "Forebridge."
"Echo's faded, sir." Lewis' voice sounded tired.
"Thank you, Lewis. We've seen the U-boat submerge — and thank you for your fine work. Go and get your head down. I'll send for you if I need you."
"Aye aye, sir."
The Captain replaced the handset. While he had been talking he had been conscious of many feet clattering up ladders; the clang of iron as some hatches were closed and clipped, and other hatches, up which the ammunition would be sent to the guns, were flung open. Now the apparent chaos had subsided to the quiet efficiency of a prepared ship. The Hecate had drawn her sword, and the naked blade was bright in her hand.
From many places came the reports. "Coxswain at the wheel, sir." . . . "B Gun cleared away, sir." . . . "Depth-charge crews correct, sir." . . . "Asdic hut closed up, sir." . . . "Plot closed up, sir." ... "X Gun cleared away, sir." . . . "Third boiler connected, sir."
It was, the Captain thought, an evolution that never ceased to thrill — action stations sounded in the presence of the enemy, the incredibly intricate ship coming under the control of one brain.
The First Lieutenant touched his arm. "Seven minutes, sir."
"In one minute alter course to port to one-eight-oh. Use thirty degrees of wheel. If she does not turn fast enough I'll stop the port engine. I want her on the new course in two minutes."
"Aye aye, sir."
The sun was breaking the horizon's rim. Pale gold light dispersed the last of the dawn's shadow.
"Port thirty, steer one-eight-oh." He heard the First Lieutenant giving the incisive order, and he moved toward the standard compass. The Hecate heeled over as her rudder bit into the water. The slick, satin smooth, was already growing from her port quarter.