This white ghost of oceans past’s name was Death, and it had come for the U-616.
The shark was rising up the side of the hull, and it was just as big as Dahlen had claimed. Only its head up to its – for want of a better term – neck was visible, but the jaws had to be three metres wide. Young Herkenhoff was trapped in them from the legs down, screaming blue murder and struggling against his grisly fate. Each attempt he made to wriggle from the thing’s maw only caused a hundred teeth the size of meat cleavers to dig in and brutalise him further.
The shark let out a soundless grunt and Krauser retched as the stench hit him. He snatched his Mauser from his belt and took a few pot shots at the shark, desperately attempting to force it to let Herkenhoff go. Small puffs and gouts of red mist showed where his rounds had struck, but the shark gave little sign that it had noticed. Its jaws merely mashed up and down a few times, causing Herkenhoff’s screams to shoot up an octave.
Dahlen grabbed him by the arm and shouted “That pea shooter won’t do a thing! Do you have a harpoon? A bill hook? Anything up here?”
No. Of course they didn’t. They were a war machine, not a fishing vessel. Krauser shoved the man aside and – bravado and adrenaline overruling his common sense, charged directly at the shark, pulling a large knife from his belt.
The shark let out another gust of foul air, Herkenhoff screamed again, and then the shark slid back into the cold dark water, dragging the poor ensign with it. As it swam away with its meal, the rope still attached to Herkenhoff pulled taut and swung fast across the deck like a clothesline. Dahlen caught it full force in the chest, and was knocked to the deck, winded. Three of the crew were ensnared around their legs and ankles and were sent into the sea with a scream.
With a quick ripping and snapping sound the rope broke free, and shot off into the ocean. Krauser ran to the entrance to the command room and screamed that there was a man overboard. Instantly, three, four, five men came dashing up the ladder to assist. Of the three men that were thrown into the water, only one was pulled out. Of the other two, there was no sign, but Krauser knew in his heart that the shark had taken them. A three course meal, courtesy of the U-616.
As the sun sank halfway below the horizon, Dahlen and Krauser once again smoked by the deck gun, although this time, they were sat on the wooden deck, leaning their backs against the gun itself. After half an hour or more of silence, Dahlen said “Let me guess… it was bigger than you expected?”
-TEN-
“Captain, we have to abandon this patrol. Nearly half the crew are dead. Vital operational systems are damaged, along with the radio itself. We must return home. To remain out here is suicide.”
Hertz wasn’t telling Krauser anything that he didn’t already know. He was embarrassed that one of his patrols should have to terminate early, but he consoled himself that it was more or less entirely due to circumstances beyond his control. Taking on survivors, a strafing run, a depth charge and being attacked by a colossal shark all in one day were not covered in the officer’s training manual.
“I am aware of the situation we are in, Mr Hertz. However, you must consider my position. It is not you who will receive the sharp end of it should we return early. I have a lot of things to weigh up before making such a decision. Now, I say to you again: I have faith in my men, and I have faith in my equipment. All I ask is that they have faith in me in return.”
Hertz’s eye twitched, and it was obvious that he did not have the faith in him that he did a mere twenty-four hours ago.
“Is there a problem, Mr Hertz?”
“No, sir,” the older man replied, tightly. “There is no problem.”
“Please take the control room. I have work of my own to see to.”
“Sir.”
Hertz turned on his heel and made his way down the crowded corridor as quickly as he was able – which was to say ‘not very’. A submarine is always in motion, with people coming and going and squeezing through tiny doors and small gaps. Krauser watched him go, with a sigh. A calm, Norwegian voice spoke from the space by his head. “He does not like you.”
Krauser turned to see Dahlen, still reading his grotty novel in his bunk. He didn’t bother to look up to see Krauser’s reaction. The captain let out a sigh and said, “No. No, he doesn’t.”
“What is his problem this time?”
“He thinks we should return home, and – as I said to you upstairs – he has a point. I know in my heart he is right, but my pride doesn’t like it. The boat is badly damaged, including weapons, manoeuvrability and our radio. If we run into a target, we can’t engage it. If we run into a plane or destroyer, it will sink us.”
“And there is a shark trying to eat us.”
“Oh, come, man! A freak attack doesn’t mean that that thing is still loitering out there waiting to-”
Dahlen looked up from his book and said nothing.
“Yes. All right. A shark is trying to eat us.”
“You believe my story, now?”
“I never disbelieved your story in general, Dahlen, but… yes. Now I have seen the beast I believe all of it. This thing is clever. It’s agile. It’s powerful. It…”
“It is large.”
“Large? I’ve never conceived of a shark so large. What is it?”
Dahlen shrugged. “It is hungry. Is that not all that is important?”
Krauser sighed. “Smoke on deck with me?”
“Of course.”
The breeze felt good after the cloying humidity of the interior of the U-616. The sun was just rising, making the sea turn blood red as Dahlen and Krauser stood against the rail, watching the ocean for any signs of their quarry – or any signs of what hunted them.
“Have you decided what you are to do? What will win out? Your heart or your head?” asked Dahlen, flicking his cigarette end into the ocean, and lighting another.
“I am still undecided,” sighed Krauser. “Although I suppose I know that turning back is the only option. We cannot continue like this. I will not – I cannot – risk my men’s lives any more than I have already.”
Dahlen nodded, his gaze on the horizon. “There is an alternative.”
“And what is that?”
“We go fishing.”
Krauser chuckled, but stopped when he saw the granite face of the prisoner. “You are serious?”
“You have firepower and armour here. I say we hunt that which hunts us.”
“You mean…?”
“Yes. I say we stay here and kill this thing.”
Krauser laughed – a full laugh, this time. “My friend, Admiral Dönitz is not paying us to explode sharks.”
“He is not paying you to bring home unspent torpedoes, either. How many torpedoes does this ship carry?”
“We start our patrol with a full complement of fourteen torpedoes; a mixture of steam and electric driven.”
Dahlen turned, and leant his back against the railing, inhaling on his cigarette. “And that thing?” he asked, indicating the deck gun.
“Two hundred and twenty rounds. Eighty-eight millimetre. It only works against surface targets, though.”
Dahlen shrugged. “We’ve both seen this thing surface. Now, how many torpedoes would you say that you expend in a single attack on a vessel? The Freyr, for example.”
“We fired three torpedoes on the Freyr, although I was ready to fire more. The torpedoes have their strengths, you see. When a torpedo hits, it hits very hard indeed. They have good range. We can fire them unseen by the target. Between you and I, however, they are far from reliable. I don’t know what the official figures are, but in my experience around half of the rounds we carry are duds, or they fail to make the range of their target, or something drifts them off course. They have their strengths, Mr Dahlen, but they have many weaknesses, also.”