Beck ordered von Scheer’s hatches shut and dogged. But since his captain was still due from the base admiral’s office with final mission orders any moment, Beck and Haffner stayed on the pier, as the ship’s reception committee.
Beck’s captain was a jolly, roly-poly man, emotionally expressive, candid and frank. Beck found this a refreshing change from his previous commanding officer, an austere and distant man, arrogant and unlikable; it had been hard for Beck, the son of a dairy farmer, to work for such an aristocratic snob. Beck looked forward to his new captain’s arrival now, so they could get under way, and Beck could draw some comfort from this captain’s ample personal warmth. Obedience to someone he admired fulfilled Beck. He dearly loved the sea, and loved being a submariner — the intimate sense of community among the crew, hiding together submerged far down underwater, to Beck was nurturing despite the risks. It helped make up for the loneliness, the homesickness, each time he went on deployment and left his wife and sons behind. Besides, the sooner this war was over with and won, the sooner Beck’s family and the whole world would be safe. Safe from constant danger and hunger and want. Safe from drifting atomic fallout and all its harmful effects. Safe from the dread of uncontrolled escalation to major nuclear fighting on land.
Beck caught himself, his mind wandering again, and felt conflicted. Such doubts and fears, even unspoken, were unpatriotic. Beck was a man who’d been decorated by the figurehead kaiser himself. Beck forced his thoughts to focus on specific tasks of the present….
The liquid hydrogen would be pumped into the cryogenic storage tanks inside the von Scheer’s hull through a special fitting in the side of the hull near the stern. Beck saw the thick insulated transfer hose was already in place. Several of Beck’s crewmen, supervised by the senior chief, stood on the after hull or on the pier. They worked ropes that helped support the weight of the hose as it bridged the gap from the edge of the pier, over the frigid dirty water in the dock, and up to the hull’s refueling port.
All is in order….
And except for the type of fuel, and what weapons that fuel is meant for, this could be a scene off one of our diesel U-boats in World War II.
Beck watched idly from a distance as technicians in protective suits worked controls at the base’s fueling station, beyond the far end of the pier. Quickly, exposed pipes and valves began to cake with frost: moisture from the air in the pens, instantly freezing on contact with the chilled fittings. One man went to turn a large main valve wheel, to admit the super-cold liquid hydrogen into the hose to the von Scheer.
Beck saw a sudden blur of frantic motion. Someone shouted, but the words were lost in a roar of glaring, angry, bright red flames.
Beck flinched involuntarily against the radiant heat as men rushed to douse a fire by the refueling station. Other men dashed for more hoses. A special team in silver reflective flame entry suits moved in with their foam applicators.
Beck knew immediately that something was terribly wrong. The fire grew hotter and brighter, and as he watched, the visible front of the flames engulfed a wider and wider area. Beck’s heart pounded hard — the men were being driven back, and their firefighting hoses were burning through. Beck heard more garbled shouting and screaming. He bellowed orders of his own, but the von Scheer’s crew were already racing to disconnect the fueling hose.
The heat in the enclosed space of the pens began to mount frighteningly. Burning rubber, lubricants, paint, even clothing gave off sooty, choking clouds of thick black smoke. The smoke mixed surreally with the fluffy billowing white of searing live steam from fast-combusting hydrogen. Beck watched in disbelief as someone in the distance collapsed, his whole body on fire.
Beck desperately wanted to help, but the scene was almost the length of two soccer fields away and there was nothing he could do. The von Scheer’s hatches stayed sealed up — Beck dared not try to have one opened lest he endanger his ship catastrophically. Beck turned to Werner Haffner, standing there mesmerized. He shouted, “Come on!”
Both men ran to the far end of the pier, beyond the von Scheer’s bow — away from the fire. They were confronted by the huge steel interlocking blast doors leading out to the fjord; the way was barred completely.
Beck glanced back in abject terror. Hungry flames like living things were leaping to more and more cartons and crates of provisions, feeding hungrily on hydraulic fluid in cranes, or licking seductively at oiled machinery.
Steam lashed Beck’s skin and throat. Smoke hurt his lungs. His eyes stung blindingly. Roaring and crackling punished his ears. He felt unbearable heat on his face, felt heat right through his uniform. The fire was out of control.
Beck tore off his sword belt and urged Haffner to do so as well. There’s only one thing left.
Beck shoved Haffner into the water in the dock and jumped in after him. Both men went far down before they could fight their way upward for air — from below, Beck saw eerie red and orange glows flicker and glint off the water. At last his drenched head broke the surface.
The water was salty and bitterly cold. Beck coughed as it went up his nose. His eyes burned even more, from the salt, but at least he and Haffner were protected from some of the heat. The air this low was more breathable. Beck felt his woolen uniform begin to soak through, chilling him — in the wintry fjord, just outside, floated many big chunks of ice. Then the cold hit with full force. Through his sodden white dress gloves Beck’s fingers ached with a throbbing pain. His breathing came in uncontrollable, overrapid gasps. His clothing grew heavy from the weight of added water, and he knew his attempts to swim were getting clumsier. He began to fear hypothermia as much as he feared the fire.
Beck saw Haffner also struggling to keep afloat. Neither man wore a life jacket. Beck summoned the last of his strength. He grabbed the lieutenant and together they worked their way to the first of the big rubber fenders that cushioned the von Scheer against the pier. There were no steps or handholds for them to climb onto the fender. Its top was much too high for Beck to reach. Beck floated like an insignificant speck next to his ship. He looked longingly up at her massive hulclass="underline" immense and round and smooth, inhuman, uncaring, and slimy from immersion in seawater during the latest shakedown cruise. It was impossible to get up that way without help.
Beck’s fingers were completely numb from the cold, and he’d lost most of the feeling in his groin and in his neck. His eardrums hurt as he heard a dull thud, then a sharp bang, from the direction of the fire. Above him a layer of smoke and steam grew thicker, reaching lower and lower each second. Beck wondered if he’d drown first, or asphyxiate. He and Haffner huddled their freezing bodies together for warmth, their arms hooked through fittings in the fender to keep their heads from going under. At the same time, in mind-twisting contradiction, the exposed top of Beck’s head and the tips of his ears suffered more and more heat. In the distance men continued to shout or scream unintelligibly.
Beck waited for the end, for a final blast of liquid hydrogen flash-boiling into gas and detonating inside the U-boat pens like a hyperbaric bomb.
But the pitch of the fire sounds altered, becoming more defensive and subdued. The loudest roaring now was the blasting of water from firefighting nozzles. The shouting Beck heard was much more confident, not panicky… even triumphant.
The noise and heat began to diminish.
The roaring changed pitch yet again. Ventilators on full power drew fresh air in from outside and the smoke was expelled. At last crewmen appeared on the forward part of von Scheer’s hull. They lowered a rescue team on ropes, and these men pulled Beck and Haffner out of the oily, stinking water.