They were supposed to be trying the same thing this time around. Lemp had orders to sink any minelayers he spotted. Odds against spying any were long: it was a big ocean, and he couldn't see very much of it, even with the Zeiss binoculars hanging around his neck. But his superiors were thorough. They wouldn't have got those wide gold stripes on their sleeves if they weren't.
Gray clouds scudded low overhead, driven by a strong west wind. In clear weather, Lemp would have scanned sky as well as sea with his binoculars. One thing had changed from the last war: airplanes were much more dangerous than they had been. They could carry bigger bombs, and carry them farther. And they all had radio sets, so they could guide enemy warships to a U-boat's path.
In this weather, though, a plane would have a devil of a time spotting the U-30. Lemp thought a pilot would have to be nuts even to take off, but he also thought pilots were nuts. Maybe it evened out.
About the most interesting thing he saw on his watch was a puffin that landed on the conning tower for a moment. With its plump, dignified body and the big beak in bright crayon colors, the bird looked as if a talented but strange child had drawn it. It also looked confused, as if wondering how this convenient little island had popped up in the middle of the sea. Then it noticed Julius Lemp-and then it was flying away again, as fast as it could.
"I don't like puffin stew," Lemp said. The wind blew his words away. Chances were the puffin wouldn't have believed him anyway. Birds didn't live to grow old by trusting people.
At 1400 on the dot, Ensign Klaus Hammerstein's shoes clanged on the iron rungs of the ladder leading up to the top of the conning tower. "I relieve you, sir," the youngster said formally, and then, "Anything I need to know?"
"Don't talk to puffins," Lemp replied, deadpan.
Hammerstein's left eyebrow-the sardonic one-rose a few millimeters. "Hadn't really planned to…sir." He took a deep breath, and his expression cleared. "Nice to get up here, isn't it?"
"Don't remind me. I'm going the other way." With a sigh, Lemp descended into the bowels of the U-30.
When the sun shone brightly, when the sky was blue, when the sea was smooth, you could easily think that coming off watch and going back into the iron coffin that let you do your job was like going from heaven to hell. With winter on its way in the North Sea, the change wasn't that bad, but it sure wasn't good.
Bowels…Julius Lemp wished he hadn't thought of that particular word, because it fit much too well. U-boats filled with every stench in the world; they might have been a distillery for bad smells. High on the list was the reek from the heads. Toilets that worked without putting the boat at risk of flooding were something German engineering was…almost up to. No U-boat had ever been lost because of a malfunctioning head-which didn't make the toilets a nice place to be around.
Unwashed bodies, musty clothes, and stale food added to the reek. U-boats carried enough drinking water. Water for washing was a luxury they didn't bother with. Seawater and saltwater soap were supposed to make up the lack. As with the heads, theory ran several lengths in front of performance.
Bilgewater added a swampy smell as old as the sea-as old as boats, anyhow. When you first came down into it, the combination was enough to knock you for a loop. After a while, you stopped smelling it-your brain blanked it out. But when you'd been breathing fresh salt air, the change was like getting a garbage can thrown in your face.
The sailors looked as if they might have been demons from hell, too. The orange light bulbs didn't help. More to it than those, though. A U-boat skipper couldn't insist on spit and polish the way officers in ordinary warships did. The men were too cramped together here-and U-boat crewmen were commonly harder cases than sailors in surface ships, too.
A lot of them started beards as soon as they left port. Shaving with saltwater soap was no fun. Even if it were, these guys were a raffish lot. They enjoyed flouting regulations. Lemp couldn't very well ream them out for it, not when he was sprouting strawberry-blond face fungus himself.
Off-duty men looked up from a game of skat. Nobody jumped to his feet and saluted. If you sprang to attention on a U-boat, you were liable to coldcock yourself on an overhead pipe. In that, U-boats were like panzers: being a shrimp helped.
He hadn't been below long when a shout floated down from the conning tower: "Ship ho! Ship off the starboard bow!"
That sent him scrambling up the ladder again. He wanted to see the ship for himself. No-he needed to see it for himself. If it was a warship, he would sink it if he could. No German surface units were in these waters. But if it was a freighter…Life got complicated then. Belgium and Holland, Norway and Denmark and Sweden were neutrals. Sinking a freighter bound for one of them could land the Reich in hot water. Freighters shaping a course for England, though, were fair game.
Up into the fresh air again. "Where away, Klaus?" he asked.
"There, sir." Hammerstein pointed. "A smoke smudge."
"Ja." Lemp saw it, too. "We'll have to get closer, see what it is." They could do that. The U-30's diesel engines gave off less smoke than did ships burning fuel oil or coal. And the gray-painted U-boat sat low in the water, making it hard to spot. Julius Lemp called down the hatch: "Change course to 350. I say again-350."
"Jawohl. Changing course to 350," the helmsman answered, and the U-30 swung almost due north.
Lemp and Hammerstein both raised their binoculars, waiting for the ship to come up over the horizon. Lemp didn't forget the rest of the seascape and the sky. You could get caught with your pants down if you concentrated too much on your prey. That was how you turned into prey yourself. Every so often, when the skipper lowered his field glasses for a moment, he looked over at Ensign Hammerstein. The pup hadn't forgotten to look other places besides dead ahead, either. Good.
"That's no freighter, sir," Hammerstein said after a while.
"Damn right it isn't," Lemp agreed. The silhouette, while tiny, was too sleek, too well raked, to haul anything so mundane as barley or iron ore. Easier to mistake a thoroughbred for a cart horse than a freighter for a…"Destroyer, I think, or maybe a minelayer."
"I want one of those!" the ensign said. "The bastards are dangerous."
"Too right they are," Lemp replied. Admirals sneered at mines-but admirals didn't have to face them. Sailors who did had a healthy respect for them. Mines were worse than a nuisance-they were a scourge. And they were an economical scourge, because they murdered ships without endangering the murderers…most of the time. But not today! Lemp set a hand on Hammerstein's shoulder. "Let's go below."
The U-30 stalked the enemy warship at periscope depth. That slowed the approach, but no help for it. If the ship spotted the U-boat, she could get away-or fight back. In a surface action, the U-30 was doomed. Her deck guns were for shooting up freighters and shooting down airplanes, not for taking on anything with real weaponry.
"It is a minelayer, by God!" Lemp said. The silhouette matched the one in Jane's Fighting Ships. How thoughtful of the English to help destroy themselves. The enemy vessel went about her business without the slightest suspicion the U-30 was anywhere in the neighborhood. That was just how Lemp liked it. It might as well have been a training run. He sneaked to within a kilometer.
At his orders, the torpedomen readied three fish in the forward tubes. The enemy ship filled the periscope's field of view. Fighter pilots from Spain said you had to get close to make sure of a hit. The same held true under the sea.
"First torpedo-los!" Lemp called. Clang! Whoosh! "Second torpedo-los!" Clang! Whoosh "Third torpedo-los!" Clang! Whoosh!