Peter Pišťanek - The End of Freddy

“Its cover name is Kamýk ,” says the representative. “That’s what the Admiralty decided. P-45/M-01 is called Kamýk , 02 is Albatross , and 03, still in dry dock being refitted, is Seagull .

“Nice names,” says Honza Libáň and steps on the gangplank connecting the submarine deck to the mole.

“And no military talk, please,” warns the representative. “Behave like civilians. You never know who’s watching you from the sea. Quickly board the vessel, settle in, and get into open sea as soon after sunset as possible.”

The crew obeys. They board the vessel, stocked in advance with everything necessary: food, water and equipment. Before Kubeš, Libáň, and chief engineer Rajter sign the inspection certificate, they carefully check every inch of the vessel. Only when totally satisfied do they put their signatures on the document.

“So, break a leg, gentlemen,” says the navy representative as he leaves the vessel, “and come back in one piece!”

Kubeš waits a while, leaning on the conning tower parapet. Then he turns to Libáň, his first warrant officer. “Report all stations ready to sail.”

“Yes, sir,” Libáň clicks his heels.

The dockers untie the ropes and the submarine weighs anchor. The Kamýk ’s stern slowly moves off the mole.

“Slow reverse!” commands Kubeš.

He shivers when he realizes this is his very first command on the Kamýk . He hears his command repeated in the lower deck. Then he hears the muffled but deep sound of the diesel engine, a vortex appears behind the stern and the vessel begins to back up.

“We’re off,” says Libáň.

“Finish the manœuvre, Lieutenant Commander Libáň!” says Kubeš and lights up a cigar.

“Yes, sir,” says Libáň and turns to the microphone. “Stop the engine!”

The vortex stops for a while.

“Steering ten points left. Slow forward. Course 310.”

“Course 310, sir,” says a voice from the tower, leading rating Petrovič, the chief steersman.

“Steady forward,” says Libáň.

“Steady forward,” they repeat on the lower deck.

Kamýk is now headed for Cape Kolka the middle of the Gulf of Riga.

Libáň steadily issues one command after another.

Kubeš takes a puff of his cigar and blows the smoke against the darkening sky. He lets himself face the wind to be braced by the sea spray. He watches the seagulls, woken by the engine noise, circling the boat’s wake.

The Kamýk is starting to cut through waves rushing towards it from Saaremaa Island and the deck under the tower is awash.

“Clear the deck!” Kubeš orders.

One by one, sailors vanish through the doors in the side of the tower.

“Deck clear, sir,” Petty Officer Schäffer, the bosun, reports from below, and disappears onto the lower deck.

Kubeš watches him, then lifts his head and goes on observing the circling seagulls.

Second warrant officer Skopšík and third warrant officer Kraus begin to devote all their attention to their binoculars.

The lights of the city recede and against the city back ground the lights of docked ships can no longer be seen. The seagulls begin to fall back behind the Kamýk ; their screeches voice disappointment that the submarine’s wake has no edible refuse. The sea gets choppier.

Kubeš throws away his wet cigar. He wraps himself tighter in his coat. It will be some five hours before they get their boat out of the Gulf of Riga and shallow waters and are able to submerge. Kubeš will feel safer with fifty metres of water under his keel.

“I’m going down,” Kubeš tells Libáň. “Let me know when we pass the last buoy of the fairway.”

“Yes, sir,” says Libáň.

Kubeš goes down and paces the length of the boat. Clearly, long hours spent in a simulator have borne fruit. All the crew knows what to do. He pauses in the engine room, where, fascinated, he watches both engines.

“Commander: the last buoys,” says his intercom.

Kubeš goes up to the bridge.

“Manœuvre station watch is over,” he says, his eyes focussed on the phosphorescent sea. “Move to regular cruising mode. Shift A keeps watch.”

He looks at Libáň and Kraus.

“There’s no more to do here, gentlemen,” he says. “The radar can see further than you and your binoculars. Forget about submarine folklore. Let’s go inside and have some tea.”

* * *

The crew members who are off-shift don’t get tired even after midnight. What they have been preparing for in all their training at the Museum base has become reality. Only at two o’clock in the morning, when shift B takes over, do all the men, except the watch in the command centre and the engine room staff, lie down on their bunks.

Around six in the morning, on the left, that is, east, a pale green circle appears. When it turns yellow, Lieutenant Commander Skopšík, the second officer on the watch, announces down the tower:

“Commander, daybreak!”

Kubeš climbs up. Duty officer Skopšík reports and tells him the submarine’s position, bearing and speed. The commander patiently says nothing. He’s checked their position with his GPS and considers the report a mere formality. So does Libáň. But this is a ritual performed by mutual agreement. After the report, Kubeš goes back down into the submarine.

Skopšík also steps into the tower. In the command centre Kubeš leans on the map table. In the underwater steersman’s place sits Petty Officer Záruba. To his right is Petty Officer Koniarczyk, in charge of rear steering. Behind them is the chief engineer, Lieutenant Rajter.

“Tower hatch locked,” says Skopšík from the tower.

“Prepare to release air,” the chief engineer commands.

The men at the air tanks report:

“First tank!”

“Second tank!”

“Third on both sides!”

“The fifth is all right!”

“The air tanks are ready!” reports Rajter.

“Flood them!” the first warrant officer shouts down to the command centre.

“Flood them!” repeats the chief engineer to the men near the tanks.

Záruba turns the underwater steering wheel to the “down” position and the man next to him turns the rear regulator to “rear middle”. The air tanks quickly shut down, water enters the tanks and the submarine tips downwards — the first tank is flooded a bit earlier — and then starts to sink into the depths. Fifteen metres down, the chief engineer shouts:

“Emergency tanks!”

Compressed air expels water from the emergency tanks with an infernal noise. At thirty metres, the chief engineer stabilises the boat. He reports to the commander:

“Vessel stabilised!”

“Turn off air pressure!” Kubeš orders. “Dive to forty metres! Both engines easy forward, condition weightless.”

The chief engineer repeats the command, balances the boat with the balancing tanks, levels out and communicates with the steersmen. When the boat dives to fifty metres, the steersmen work independently and Rajter only corrects them when necessary.

At this depth, the boat does not pitch any more. Everything is wrapped in silence, broken only by the hum of the electric motor resonating through the boat’s hull.

“Vessel at forty metres, sir,” says Rajter. “Zero tilt.”

Kubeš looks at the compass.

“Course 225,” he says.

“Course 225, sir” says the chief engineer after a while.

“Maintain course and depth, Mr Rajter,” says the commander.

“Maintain course and depth, sir,” nods Rajter.

“Take over, Mr Petrovič,” the commander tells the chief steersman and then turns to Rajter. “Come to my room in ten minutes. All the officers, except for the shift that’s asleep. Make sure.”