Andrew Williams - The Interrogator

‘Have you seen Teddy?’ Her voice was empty, distant.

‘Sarah, isn’t it?’

‘Where’s Teddy?’

A large Canadian nurse caught Mary’s arm and pulled her roughly away from the steps: ‘Mobile Aid Leicester Square.’

‘Here—’ and Mary wrapped her mackintosh about Sarah’s bare shoulders. Then she led her by the hand through the press of spectators.

‘There was a woman, naked, and bodies — bodies everywhere. An RAF officer was holding another woman and he kept saying, “mother’s all right” but her head was practically…’

Mary stopped to fold Sarah tightly in her arms, to stroke her dusty hair: ‘Shush. Let’s not speak of it.’ Sarah’s slight frame began to heave with silent sobs. ‘Where’s Teddy?’ she gasped again.

Two, three, four minutes, and they stood in the dark street hugging each other as ambulances, the walking wounded and the curious passed them by.

Teddy was waiting at the aid post in Leicester Square, his chin trembling with emotion: ‘Thank God.’ He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and teardrops stained the dusty sleeve of his khaki uniform. Were they brother and sister or lovers? They left before Mary could find out, their heads bent together across the square. Sarah was still wearing Mary’s old mac. At the aid post a weary Belgian doctor who had been in the Café told her that two bombs had crashed through the roof of the Rialto on to the dance floor. Only one had exploded but the carnage was terrible none the less. The Café was like the great ballroom of an ocean liner and its glittering mirrors had shattered into countless cutting, stabbing pieces.

Mary walked slowly home along Whitehall, mind and weary body oppressed by thoughts of the Café de Paris. The sky was still a flaming orange and strangely beautiful. But in the City — or was it further east in Stepney and Bow — firemen were fighting to save other streets, other families trapped in the rubble of their homes. Why was it like this? So many lives lost and so much pain. Nothing seemed to be beyond the reach of the Germans, nothing was sacred any more.

‘Alaaaarm!’

It pierced the anxious silence like the cry of a man falling from a precipice. At once the dive bell began to tremble.

‘Clear the bridge.’

Bodies dropping from the tower, heavy boots clattering over the deck plates, the lights swinging above the mess tables as every man sought his station in the boat.

‘Herr Kap’tän. Destroyer.’

The first officer’s face was white with shock, words tripping and tumbling from him: ‘From nowhere… upon us… under a thousand metres…’

‘Calm yourself. Down to a hundred.’

‘Flood four and five.’

The control-room mechanics were already working the valve wheels, the sea rumbling into the tanks as the U-112 began to dip sharply under. Seventy-six tight metres of steel from stern to bow. At least thirty seconds to clear the surface. Kapitän zur See Jürgen Mohr glanced at his watch and then towards the radio room:

‘Well?’

The operator’s face was half turned towards him, one hand pressed firmly to his headpiece, the other at the dial of the hydrophones: ‘Contact closing fast. 050 degrees. Port bow.’

‘Silent running, Chief.’

Young faces stiff and pale in the harsh light of the control room, bearded after a month at sea, their wide eyes turned to the depth-gauge needle dropping so slowly.

‘Herr Kap’tän. Coming straight for us.’ The voice of the radio operator was high-pitched and urgent. Seconds later and Mohr could hear her too, drawing ever closer, louder, closer, her screws swishing like wind in the Arctic. The young engineer at his side was gripping the skirt of the tower, his mouth a little open, his breath short and shaky.

‘Engines full. Right full rudder. Deeper.’

The radio operator leant further forward to make himself heard: ‘Herr Kap’tän. Depth charges.’

But he could hear the soft splash, splash, splash of the barrels as they broke the surface, rolling and sinking. And he followed the second hand round the face of his watch, 25, 30, 35…

‘Brace. Brace.’

A crewman was whimpering close by. As Mohr turned to look, a charge boomed beneath the boat, tossing the stern up and round in a corkscrew motion and he was thrown hard against the periscope housing. Deck plates lifted as a second detonated on the starboard side, then a third and the lights flickered and died… Someone was lying across Mohr’s feet and he could feel a trickle of blood on his cheek. Some lights had shattered. The depth gauge had blown too. Another detonation, above them this time. A tin of some sort smacked against the skirt of the tower behind him. One of the men in the torpedo room for’ard was shouting something unintelligible, his voice shaking with fear.

‘Steady. Steady there. Watch your depth, Chief.’

A swooshing of compressed air to the tanks and the 112 ’s bow began to lift.

‘Emergency lighting.’

‘Herr Kap’tän.’ The first officer, Gretschel, was holding his white commander’s cap.

The faces of the control-room mechanics were turned towards him, anxious, expectant, trusting. They had been there together a dozen times.

‘Depth?’

The second officer had taken his place for’ard by the gauge in the torpedo room: ‘180 metres…’

‘Damage report, Chief?’

Everything was wet to the touch, oil and water working their way through valves, trickling down the pipes into the bilges, the deck plates treacherous underfoot, cracked battery cells, splintered wood, broken glass.

‘Deeper. Take her deeper.’

Leutnant Koch’s voice rang the length of the boat: ‘170 metres… 180…’

‘Where is she?’

The operator leant out of the radio room and shook his head: ‘Nothing.’

But a moment later they could hear her reaching out for them with her Asdic detector, high-pitched, insistent, ping, ping, ping bouncing against the hull of the boat.

‘Deeper still.’

‘190… 200…’

‘Contact closing, Herr Kap’tän…’

The thrashing of her screws again, attack speed, closer, closer, closer.

‘Both engines full.’

‘Depth charges dropped…’

A deep shudder ran through the boat as a charge detonated with an ear-splitting boom on the port bow. And then another, and another, and another, rolling the boat like a bath toy under a tap, throwing men against wheels and pipes and instruments and to the deck, and plunging them into darkness.

‘Torches.’

Another barrage, charge after charge, the boat dipped down and round, a deep echo grumbling through the depths. Mohr could hear water cascading in a heavy stream from the periscope packing. His uniform was wet and the control room was filling with the sharp smell and taste of chlorine gas. Someone flashed a torch in his face: ‘Herr Kap’tän, the starboard motor’s gone completely.’ It was the young engineer, Heine, his face contorted with stress and fear, ‘And the port motor’s damaged and the port diesel too.’

‘Work on it and quickly.’

Then from the for’ard torpedo room: ‘210 metres… 220…’

The boat was slipping away, the hull creaking and groaning under the pressure. And from somewhere near the stern, a wild knocking as if a giant sea creature was prising the 112 open like a shell. A sharp pop close by as another valve seal was blown open and then another and another and a fountain of water arching across the control room, twinkling in the torchlight. Mohr could hear water and diesel sloshing above the deck plates, and his ankles were wet.