“The shark is not hunting us. The Kriegsmarine is the hunter of these waters.”
“The Hunter can become The Hunted.”
“Mr Dahlen, supposing that the shark could track us, why on Earth should it want to? The Freyr left a large wake, and was carrying fresh produce, which the thing could eat. We are a war machine. We leave no wake. We have done nothing to pique its interest and we have done nothing to provoke it. Frankly, Mr Dahlen, I see no reason why your shark should have noticed the U-616 at all. Please, put it from your mind. Regardless of my decision, we will be home within a week, and your shark will be far behind us.”
Dahlen nodded. “I hope you are right, captain. Because – believe me – if this shark wants the U-616, it will take it.”
The repairs were carried out as quickly and as fully as was feasible, but the majority of the damage – the serious damage – simply could not be repaired either with the tools they had at their disposal, or without taking the ship into a dry dock.
Krauser conducted the funeral service on deck for the ten members of the crew that had not survived the depth charge attack. He did it almost by rote, straight from the manual. Truth be told, most of the men had been new to the crew for this patrol, and he was not close to any of them. In war, it took a while before you bothered to get close to people. It simply wasn’t worth the effort if they were not going to survive. It was cold and it was cruel, but it was the way that things were.
The submarine steamed through the ocean, and the bodies were thrown off of the side, one by one.
Leaving a trail of fresh meat in its wake.
-NINE-
The submarine was coasting slowly through the waters as the sun touched the horizon, the sky streaking into purple and orange. Dahlen and Krauser were smoking and conversing by the deck gun as ten or so of the crew milled around, some repairing some of the minor damage from the depth charge attack, the others relaxing, or cleaning the decks. Their hammering, clanging and chatting was a gentle white noise, mixed with the constant hiss of the waves against the hull of the ship. The wind was a nice breeze, and it was not too cold for a change. Krauser was grateful for this, having once again left his windbreaker by his bunk.
“Will the men not think it odd you are fraternising with the enemy?” asked Dahlen.
Krauser chuckled. “If anyone asks, I’m escorting a prisoner.”
Dahlen accepted a cigarette from the captain, and lit it. “Do you have anyone waiting for you at home?”
“My wife. We have a child on the way. It should be born when I’m next on home leave.”
“That is good timing.”
“It was more accident than design, but as you say, good timing, either way. Yourself?”
“My wife, two sons.”
They were prevented from talking for the moment by a vigorous hammering noise as Herkenhoff – one of the youngest recruits – took a heavy lump hammer to a handrail that had been bent out of shape. They watched the rhythmic pounding for a while, noticing long before the ensign did that the rail was refusing to budge. “Herkenhoff!”
The young ensign turned, and Krauser suppressed a smile as he saw the young man’s shock at being addressed directly by his captain. “Yes, Captain?”
“Try it from the other side.”
“Yes, Captain!”
Herkenhoff went to climb over the guard rail to attack it from the water side, causing Dahlen to wince and Krauser to yell out once again, “Herkenhoff!”
The eighteen year old turned again, eyes wide, one leg over the rail as if he were hopping over a style on a countryside walk. “Yes, Captain?”
“Get a damn rope and secure yourself first. I’ve lost enough men to the sea for one day, thank you.”
“Yes… yes, Captain,” he replied, heading off to find some rope.
“Youth thinks it is immortal,” muttered Dahlen.
Krauser chuckled. “You see the job I have here? Warrior, leader, office manager and – occasionally – school master. Did you see his eyes?”
“He looked as though he was worried you were going to cane him, or give him a detention.”
Krauser laughed out loud. “Exactly! Fresh out of school, and out on the ocean. Poor man. Boy. Whatever.”
Dahlen exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Here he comes again.”
Herkenhoff carried a length of rope, one end of which he fastened around a hard point on the opposite side of the deck from where he intended to hop the rail. Aware that he was under the watchful eye of his captain, it was obvious that he was being doubly sure in everything he did. Truth be told, he checked the rope was fast two or three times more than he needed to, but at least Krauser had no grounds on which he could properly berate the boy. He carried the rope across the deck to the battered handrail, and tied a loop around his body, from his left shoulder to his right hip, like a royal sash.
His confidence buoyed by the fact that neither his captain nor any of his other superiors up on deck that evening had said anything, he grabbed the rail in both hands, and confidently climbed over it. His ankles were at near-on a forty-five angle against the hull of the ship, but he was able to hold the rail in his right hand, and his hammer in the left, leaving him confident enough he would not slip into the water – and if he did, at least there was the added security of the rope.
“Much better, Mr Herkenhoff!”
“Yes, Captain.”
The two men watched the boy at work for a moment, before Dahlen asked “Have you given any more thought as to what you will do next?”
Krauser sighed. “I don’t like it, but we may have to turn back. I expect you to keep this to yourself, but the radio was also damaged in the attack. If we end up in a worse situation, or in dire need of support, we have no means of calling for help. I dare say that I’ll receive a dressing down from my superiors for being overly cautious, but I won’t risk the lives of my crew any more than I absolutely need to.”
“You’re a good man, Captain Krauser. This is the right d-”
A deafening explosion of water fountaining up from the starboard side of the deck interrupted whatever Dahlen had been going to say. The Norwegian fell backwards, instinctively covering his head with his hands. “What the…?”
Krauser was forced to grab hold of the deck gun for support, but managed to hold his footing. The colossal fountain of water made him think that the submarine had been torpedoed, or that they had struck a sea mine – just his luck when they were already so critically damaged!
He heard the thudding and rattling of men running around the wooden deck, and the screaming of at least one injured man. He smelt salt water and – no, not cordite or burning – he smelt rotting fish and the iron tang of blood. His arm hairs rose and he knew what he was going to see before his eyes gained focus upon it.
A cold, genetic memory of fear ran through him as he saw the leviathan up close for the first time.
Its flesh was blubber and muscle, an old, washed out grey, similar to a Great White, five times larger. Its mouth was a funnel of blood and sharp knives. The largest teeth themselves were twenty-five centimetres long, some brown and broken, some white; all sharp as glass and as hard as diamond. The monster’s one, black eye stared sightlessly along the deck, giving the impression that it was not vision that guided its vicious attacks, but rather some otherworldly sense of prescience.
Its skin was a mass of scar tissue, telling tales of the battles it had fought and won years, decades, perhaps centuries in the past. It had seen much and defeated enemies and history alike. Krauser could not shake the impression that this was some throwback to prehistory. A relic of a shark, some monster from before humanity or even the dinosaurs had walked the earth, before life itself had crawled out of the ocean.