“Did you see that?” screamed Kleiner, standing next to him. “It’s a monster, sir!”
Krauser suppressed a shiver and swallowed before replying. He had seen it, although he knew he had to be mistaken. “It’s still just a shark, Mr Kleiner. Get ready to take those men on board.”
He turned back, just in time. The shark collided with the boat, causing it to splintering it into two. With a crash and a stifled scream, the men inside and all their supplies fell into the freezing cold North Sea. There was a momentary call for help, and then all were submerged.
The deck fell silent for a moment. Everyone kept their eyes focused on the spot where the boat had last been seen – some hoping for the men to surface so that a rescue could still be attempted, others hoping for a better glimpse of the colossal shark that had claimed this area of the water as its own.
Krauser scanned the debris. More white driftwood. A first aid kit. A duffel bag. The detritus of a failed escape.
He let the binoculars fall to hang on the strap about his neck. The Freyr was halfway sunk by now, and there was no sign of any crew on board, or any lifeboats being evacuated. There was little now that the crew of U-616 could do. They had wrought their destruction on the freighter, and now they had to continue their patrol, on to the next target. “Prepare to move out,” he said to Kleiner. “We’re done here.”
As he turned to head down to the control room, he heard a solitary cry for help. The others on the deck heard it, too. Captain Krauser ran to the prow of the U-Boat’s deck and thought he could see someone waving near the debris. Pulling the binoculars up, he hurriedly focused on the spot. It was the blonde man who had first seen them! Somehow he had escaped the carnage that the shark had wrought and was still alive!
“Belay that last order!” Krauser shouted. “There is a survivor. Slow ahead and bring us as close as you can. I will not leave that man to be fish food!”
The diesel engines shuddered into life once more, and the submarine slowly pushed towards the flailing man. His motions were already slowing noticeably from the cold, and Krauser knew that there could only be a short time before he succumbed to the sudden temperature drop.
The man had managed to catch hold of a piece of driftwood, and lay still, hanging from it in the water. Krauser gritted his teeth as the submarine moved closer. They were only thirty metres from him by now. He shouted out to the man. “Hello, down there!”
The man raised his head, but gave no other signal that he had heard, and remained silent.
Krauser tried calling out to the man in English. He knew no Norwegian but was sure he remembered hearing from a fellow captain that most of the Scandinavian countries spoke English as a second language. He had joked that they spoke it even better than the English did, themselves. “Are you able to swim to us? We have food and medical supplies and will arrange for your delivery home, once we return to Germany.”
The man nodded, and began to kick his legs in the water, propelling his small piece of driftwood toward the U-616. Kleiner hurried to his captain’s side with a length of rope, looped to act as an improvised lifesaver. As the man got within twenty metres of the submarine, Kleiner spun and threw it out to rest in the water.
“We have Roy Rogers on board…” joked Krauser, under his breath. Kleiner gave a wry smile, acknowledging the joke, but still terrified for the man – and of the shark that, for all they knew, still loitered in the area, patrolling its home.
The man reached the lasso, and pulled the heavy, wet rope over his head and slid an arm through, gripping it tightly. Kleiner and another of the men began to reel the survivor aboard. After what seemed like an age, the man – dripping cold, salty water – finally clambered up onto the deck.
Krauser extended a hand. “Welcome aboard the U-616. I am Captain August Krauser, and I wish to offer you our hospitality.”
The man shivered and accepted the proffered handshake. “Dahlen. Arild Dahlen.”
They were interrupted by a massive metallic collision sound from the direction of the Freyr. The two thousand ton freighter was rocking back and forth in the water, sending waves spreading out and in their direction. The submarine was far enough out to avoid being tossed around, but the water still lapped up and over the wooden deck in places. Krauser wondered if the Freyr could have been unfortunate enough to have hit a rock, or perhaps even a sea mine, as it sank.
The Norwegian man joined them in staring out over the water. “Captain Krauser, I strongly advise that you get your ship out of this area as fast as you can.”
Krauser met his gaze, and something unspoken passed between the two men. “I intend to do just that, Mr Dahlen. Mr Kleiner, I will escort Mr Dahlen to Dr Arnold; please see that we move out as fast as possible.”
Krauser guided Dahlen back down the deck to the entrance hatch. “You saw it then?” asked the Norwegian.
“I don’t fear sharks, Mr Dahlen. I fear reports of your sinking reaching the British Navy or Air Force, and them launching their own missions to sink us in return.”
Dahlen stopped walking and turned to the captain. “What do you mean?”
Krauser grimaced, remembering that he had just killed several of this man’s friends. “It was nothing personal on our part, Mr Dahlen, but we are under orders to sink as many cargo vessels bound for Britain as we can. As we are responsible for the torpedo strike which sank your vessel, we can expect retaliation. As such, I intend to be long gone from the area before that happens.”
The Norwegian half-smiled to himself, and stepped closer to the captain. Krauser’s hand went to his Mauser, lest the man was about to attempt a misguided escape effort.
Dahlen’s eyes flickered to the gun, and he stopped, but did not back away. Instead, cocking his head, he whispered. “You think you sank the ship?”
-FIVE-
Dahlen’s face crumpled with disgust and he suppressed a gag as soon as he reached the bottom of the ladder into the control room. The noxious cocktail of diesel engine fumes, over-ripening food, and the body odour of forty-two unwashed men was something that Krauser had become immune to over the course of the patrol. Their Norwegian captive had no such luxury and it had hit him like a punch to the stomach. The noise, too, must have been jarring to a man who had only ever sailed above the water. Every rattle and hiss of every piston reverberated around the submarine, creating a constant white noise background that was, well, actually comforting, after a fashion – but at first it was monstrous.
Krauser smiled as the dazed man took in his surroundings. “Welcome aboard the U-616, Mr Dahlen.”
Dahlen nodded an acknowledgment and, at Krasuer’s direction, moved down the central corridor, squeezing past men and baggage, where necessary, and trying to get his head around moving through the hatchways and openings of a U-Boat. Eventually, they reached the bunk of Dr Arnold. The doctor had already been informed of the arrival of their new passenger, and had prepared his examination equipment. He extended his hand and introduced himself.
Dahlen appeared to be nervous and wary, which was understandable. Krauser supposed that the man had probably been hearing about the vicious, barbaric ways of the enemy since the outbreak of the war. He did not take it personally. Demonising the enemy was a psychological tactic that went back possibly even earlier than the days of Hannibal or Alexander the Great, and he had no doubt that some of his men expected the British and Polish fighters to be equally as monstrous. It was simply part of how wars were fought.