‘Sorry, Otto.’ Weiss winked at Heiser over the Coxswain’s massive head. ‘But I could be happy here but for him.’

  Lehr sighed. ‘I have been in the Imperial Navy for twenty years. I have seen all kinds of men. Nothing can surprise me any more.’

  * * * * *

  Georg Niklas, the Chief Engineer, stood on his grating and rested his gloved hands on the rail of the catwalk which ran across his gleaming kingdom like a bridge. Here, in a world of thundering machinery and harsh lights, the bowels of the ship had been cut away to leave room for this maze of valves and gauges, of hissing steam and great oiled pistons. Niklas was always impressed, and never got tired of just standing on his perch above it all. Shadowy overalled figures moved like spiders amongst the tangle of steel and brass, checking, greasing and listening. The heart of the ship was never still, and could never be left unwatched.

  Anton Schuman, his subordinate, walked slowly along the vibrating catwalk, his legs straddled against the uneasy roll of the ship around him. He wiped his filthy hands carefully on his piece of waste, and greeted Niklas with a cheerful grin.

  ‘Those damned stokers are getting quite good!’

  He was shouting above the din, but Niklas was automatically watching his lips. Years in one engine-room after another had made speech almost unnecessary. ‘Good. I am pleased they are settling down. The stokehold in this ship is now what they have been used to. We don’t want any accidents if we can help it.’

  Schuman glanced about him. ‘How are things up top?’

  ‘Not bad,’ he answered vaguely. ‘Still raining a good bit, and pretty cold Typical Atlantic weather, but it could get rougher.’

  He stared moodily at Schuman’s youthful face. Just as I was once, he thought. Keen and full of hope. It is a weird life for a man to choose. It is not always enough to know that the whole ship is depending on you. His ear checked the even beat of the distant screw.

  Typical of the High Command to choose a ship like this. Two propellers would have been better. Suppose anything happened to this single shaft? I wonder if Schuman realises what we might be up against? He ticked off the little line of figures on the long-sheet. Coal consumption was favourable, although it was difficult to foresee the possible date of the next bunkering. Von Steiger no doubt had several alternatives in mind. He will tell me when he is ready.

  He patted Schuman’s arm and climbed heavily up the long, steep ladder. As he climbed, with the thick hot air swirling around him, he wondered if there would be time to get clear if they were torpedoed, or if a heavy shell plummeted into the boiler-room. A quick death? Who knew for sure? The hatch opened, and he sucked in his cheeks as the knife-edge of the wind slashed at his unprepared body. He paused momentarily by the lee rail and peered out at the angry whitecaps. I know why I chose the engine-room. It is because I hate the sea. I am afraid of it, and yet, like a woman, I am unable to leave it.

  Part Two

  ‘. . . war demands that sooner or later we must dirty our hands a little.’

  6

  THE SIX-THOUSAND-TON BRITISH freighter S.S. Iolanthe, outward bound from New York to Liverpool, gave another long-drawn-out shudder and seemed to settle even lower in the oily Atlantic swell. The fog which hid everything but a few feet of water around the hull was clammy and bitterly cold, and the ship’s uneven outline was running with moisture and a frail covering of ice-rime.

  With her engine stopped she lay beam-on to the sea, her decks set in a threatening list and her drooping stem barely two feet above the hungry water. Enclosed by the fog wall, the silence was all the more apparent, and when the seamen who were labouring below jamming great baulks of timber against the bulging forward bulkhead made some unexpected sound, those few who waited wretchedly by the lifeboats started, and stared at one another with fresh alarm.

  The ship had been one of thirty in an England-bound convoy. For a week they had wallowed patiently across the Atlantic in some of the worst weather experienced for many years. The harassed captains had tried desperately to maintain their set course and speed, whilst all the time mountainous seas and screeching winds had battered down upon their overloaded ships and made station-keeping a nightmare. Dimly on either wing of the straggling convoy the hard-pressed destroyers had run this way and that, threatening, pleading and trying themselves to stay afloat. During one brief lull, when the labouring ships had been sorting themselves out, the shadowing U-boats had struck. Two ships had been blown apart before anyone realised what was happening.

  Iolanthe had been in the middle of the port line of ships, and had received a torpedo in her bows, even as the Commodore signalled the convoy to scatter. Her captain had watched helplessly as the other vessels surged past him, and one of the escorts had circled protectively nearby, her signal-lamp flashing through the rain.

  ‘Abandon ship! I will pick up your crew and passengers!’

  The captain read the signal slowly and bit his lip. Abandon ship? What was the fool saying? With a bit of luck the bulkhead would hold, and if they could get it shored up they would still make port. He thought of the thousands of frozen-meat carcasses in his holds and the urgent need for them at home. He thought, too, of his ship. Old, but well built. There must surely be some answer to the problem.

  His mate, a young Scotsman, ran on to the bridge. ‘We’re shoring up, Captain! What shall I do next?’

  ‘Signal yon destroyer that I’m staying put! The damage is not really so bad that I can’t make a fight of it!’

  He watched the light begin to blink. He was committed now. A ship, his crew and four passengers.

  The destroyer circled warily round them, like a fox sniffing out possible danger. ‘I regret that I cannot stay with you. Must reorganise convoy. Will return tomorrow and escort you in. Good luck!’

  The old captain grunted and watched the mounting froth at the warship’s stern. In less than five minutes she had vanished into the rain-squall after the other ships, and there was nothing but the swish of rain across his dead vessel.

  He turned to the mate. ‘Man the gun, Mister. We might have company soon. Have all the boats swung out and lowered to deck level. Tell the Second to check stores and fresh water, and see that the passengers don’t wander off and get lost!’ As the other man hurried from the bridge he added: ‘I always said these convoys were no damn’ good! Each man for himself, I say!’

  Now, three hours later, the ship lay heavy and wallowing in the swell. It seemed’ to the four passengers who stood shivering by the second lifeboat that they had been there for ever.

  The second mate, his oilskin glistening in the poor light, scrambled down from the boat and stood uncertainly, banging his red hands together. This was a fine business indeed. He looked at the four bunched figures in their cumbersome lifejackets and wondered what they were thinking.

  Caryl Brett glanced across at her husband and shivered. She had been in her bunk when the torpedo had struck the ship, and for several seconds had lain quite motionless, as if paralysed. Now she pulled her fur coat tighter around her body and felt the bite of the air against her bare legs, which were protected only by the thickness of her nightdress. Her thick auburn hair hung damp and cold against her pale face, and she wondered what Arthur was thinking. It was so like him to be fully dressed and apparently in control of himself. He was wearing a thick camel-hair coat over his suit, and she saw that he was carrying his pigskin briefcase in one gloved hand. His handsome face, so often petulant or patronising, as the mood took him, was filled with nervous irritation. She watched him numbly, and felt her teeth begin to chatter. Was it possible that at any moment they would be required to get into that scarred little lifeboat and be lowered down into the sea? She took a pace towards the rail and stopped as the damp air greedily explored her thighs. What were they waiting for? Why didn’t somebody say something?

  Arthur Brett turned to the young officer. ‘Well? What the hell do we do now?’

  ‘Wait and see if we can repair the damage, sir.’ The mate stared past him at the lovely girl in the wet fur coat. If I had a wife like her I’d be thinking of her safety instead of a damned briefcase, he thought angrily. ‘It might not be as bad as it looks. After all, the convoy lost two ships this morning, and I expect more’ll go before they round up the stragglers! We might be safer on our own!’

  There was a dull clang from aft. ‘That’s the gun, sir. They’re keeping a lookout for U-boats.’ He sounded doubtful.

  Brett pushed a lock of fair hair from his forehead and groaned. ‘God, Caryl! They’ve all gone off and left us to fend for ourselves! So much for the chivalry of the sea!’

  Simon Gelb, a heavily built business man from the East End of London, clicked his tongue and sank his hands deeper into his pockets. ‘Why did I have to take this ship, eh? Never get home at this rate!’

  No one answered him.

  Caryl Brett wondered if her husband had been drinking. He looked flushed in spite of the agonising cold, and his eyes seemed a bit wild. It was ironic, really. He, of all people. The man who preached his love for his fellow humans, and had refused to fight for his country, was now marooned on a motionless hulk. Struck down by an invisible fellow human! She wondered when she had first started to despise him. Probably when he had taken the appointment in New York to lecture on Anglo-American Educational Co-operation. It seemed a curious way to fight a war, she had thought at the time. By refusing to put on a uniform he had been immediately accepted for a higher and better-paid post than he would have ever attained under normal circumstances. She stared at the young second mate and the shadowy shapes of the seamen who were waiting by the lifeboat falls. What did they get out of being brave and patriotic?

  Mather, the fourth passenger, touched her arm lightly. ‘Why don’t you go to your cabin, Mrs. Brett? I am sure there is time for you to dress.’

  He was a tiny, pale man who rarely spoke, but who had earned both her shame and admiration on his first appearance when he had said with emotion: ‘I’m going back to join up. I can’t stand working in my firm’s American office when all the lads from my home town are dying in France.’ It was not only his obvious sincerity that moved her. He was nearly fifty, and would be little use as a fighting soldier. Yet he was making his gesture.

  ‘Perhaps I will. I am hardly dressed for this sort of thing.’

  The second mate frowned. ‘I’m afraid not, Mrs. Brett. But I’ll go to your cabin and see what I can get for you.’

  ‘Surely you don’t expect me to change into my clothes up here in the open?’ She smiled at his embarrassment. ‘Thank you, that would be very good of you!’

  Her husband stepped closer to her. ‘Must you behave like a slut, Caryl? Sometimes I wonder if that’s all you think about!’

  She felt the sting of tears in her eyes. ‘If you took a little interest in me sometimes . . .’ she began.

  But he shrugged impatiently. ‘Oh, not again! Three years we’ve been married and that’s all I’ve heard! For God’s sake stop harping about it!’

  She ran her fingers through her hair and twisted away from him. Her friends had warned her about him, and yet when she had been his secretary she had seen nothing but his firmness and strange aloof devotion to his work. He was so wrapped up in himself that he could barely find the time to speak to her. Yet, in spite of all that, he seemed to need her near him. Another possession, she thought bitterly.

  ‘What do you think of the war now, Arthur? Is this how you imagined it?’

  ‘Rather more stupid than I believed, that’s all. I only hope to God some ship will pick us up soon. I have that important conference in London, and there’s that series of lectures in Cambridge. I should have gone by a faster ship.’

  She sighed. What was the use? If only he showed a small interest in her. Anything but this ridiculous pretence.

  There was a rumble beneath them and the seaman nearest them looked up. ‘Blimey! The old engine’s goin’ agin!’

  Very slowly the ship began to move ahead once more, and on her bridge the captain let out his breath equally slowly. In the forehold the seamen toiled amongst the scattered cargo, to hammer wedges beneath the massive beams, and eyed the dripping bulkhead with mixed apprehension and pride.

  It was at that moment that the fog began to move away. Slowly, lazily, it rolled clear of the ship, and allowed a frail, watery sun to cast its light across the pewter water. The captain stared with disbelief at the submarine which lay like a basking shark in the sun’s path. Long, grey and completely evil, it looked as if it was waiting just for him and his ship.

  ‘Hard a-port! Full ahead!’ He swung his glasses up to his eyes and watched the submarine’s deck. Already some tiny figures were running along the casing towards the long gun.

  ‘But the bulkhead. Captain! It’ll not hold against full speed!’ The mate looked stricken.

  ‘We must turn, Mister! We have to get our gun to bear. It’s our only chance!’

  He watched with narrowed eyes as his ship began to swing round. ‘No sign of the convoy, but look yonder across the port beam! A bit of smoke, man! Send off a signal. S O S. Being attacked by U-boat on surface. Give position. Send it plain language! Jump to it, man!’

  His voice was drowned by the crack of the U-boat’s gun. The shell screamed overhead and hissed into the sea. In reply the freighter’s gun barked back, and a tall waterspout rose significantly beyond her conning tower. ‘By God, a good shot!’ The captain banged the rail with impatience. ‘Come on, girl! Give the bastard hell!’

  The suddenness of the Iolanthe’s retaliation had taken the submarine by surprise, and the nearness of the first shot had obviously unnerved her captain. He reduced speed and began to drop astern. His shells still screamed overhead, and then one struck the bridge and exploded with a blinding flash. As the white-hot splinters sprayed across the wheel-house and set the varnished woodwork ablaze, the old captain and his mate were cut to ribbons, and the ship was momentarily out of control. To settle the ship’s fate, the straining bulkhead collapsed, and the sea surged into the gaping hole.

  On the boatdeck they felt the deck being to cant, and with horrified eyes saw the boats swing free of their davits at a sickening angle.

  The second mate staggered clumsily along the slippery planking, a suitcase in his hand. ‘Lower away, lads! Abandon ship!’

  He seized the girl by the arm and pushed her to the rail. He thrust his suddenly old face against hers. ‘Listen. You’ll have to jump for it! When you’re in the water just keep swimming clear of the ship, or she’ll pull you down.’ He threw the case into the lifeboat and watched as it was lowered into the sea. Then with an axe he slashed at the falls. ‘Come on, lads, over the side with you! Get that boat away from the side!’

  The ship lurched and the angle became more acute. There was a crackling roar from the blazing bridge as all the distress rockets were ignited as one and added a final macabre touch to the ship’s death-agony.

  Caryl Brett folded her hands across the top of her lifejacket and stood terrified by the rail. The world had gone mad around her. Seamen were running wildly for the boats, and above the crash and whine of shell-fire the ship’s siren wailed like an uncontrolled banshee.

  She looked for Arthur and found that he was no longer in sight. Frantically she stared down at the bobbing heads and upturned boats, and then saw him swimming strongly towards one of the successfully lowered lifeboats. She was suddenly calm. She would wait on the ship and go down with it. There was no other way now. A hand gripped her arm and little Mr. Mather peered up at her. ‘Come on, my dear. We will jump together!’

  All at once she was up on the rail, the rough metal grating against her calves, and then she was falling. Fall . . . falling . . . and then choking under the tremendous pressure of salt and darkness. That was it. That was how it was meant to be. Arthur swimming to safety. Leaving her . . . leaving her . . . leaving her . . . . She gave up the struggle and let herself go limp.

  She was conscious of the great pain in her spine and the rough pressure of hands on her bruised body. A voice said: ‘I think she’s breathing. I’ve got most of the water from her guts!’ She was staring down into the bottom of a boat, into a tangled mixture of feet and oars, of water and vomit. She had been saved. She tried to speak, but the hands kept kneading her, pushing her stomach down hard against the wooden thwart. Then Mather’s dripping face floated down to her, and a hand began to push the hair from her mouth and eyes.

  ‘Here, drink this!’

  Hot, rasping taste on her tongue. Gin, whisky, brandy? She tried to concentrate. No use.

  A voice said: ‘Christ! She’s gone! Poor old Iolanthe!’

  Another said, ‘The Captain bought it, too!’

  A cracked voice interrupted: ‘Blast ’im! I ’ope ’e rots in ’ell, the bastard! ’E let us in for this! The dirty, rotten bastard!’

  ‘Shut up, you stupid sod! The Skipper was a good bloke! The best!’

  Caryl Brett tried to think it out. A man was supporting her body from behind. That must be my vomit in the boat. Poor little Mather looks as if he is going to cry. I wish I could console him. A rough hand against her thigh. I must be naked from the waist down. Why am I not ashamed, as Arthur has made me feel in the past? What is that new sound? A harsh rattle. Distant. Then nearer. Like a lawnmower in the summer. This way and then that. Far, then near. What can it be?

  Then she felt the hand on her body turn into frantic claws and something hot ran down upon her legs. She pressed her hands to her ears and tried to stifle the sounds of screams and curses that suddenly filled the boat. She tried to move, but a heavy body fell across her and pinned her to the seat. She should have recognised that sound. With relentless care the U-boat moved among the drifting lifeboats, her machine guns splaying them with cold efficiency, while their gunners looked for any sign of life in the scarlet-splashed carcasses which lay amongst the splintered planking.

  The wisp of smoke on the horizon grew stronger, and soon a ship grew clear and hard in the watery haze. The U-boat turned reluctantly from its revenge, and dived. The convoy had to be caught and harried once more. The surface shivered under a sudden squall, so that the wreckage and shattered lifeboats bobbed like toys on the broken water.