U-494 hung back, electric motors turning the screws slowly, allowing her sisters to make the running and to drag off the cover. They were blind but for hydrophones, eighty feet down, but sound travels a long way under water and the hydrophone operator could follow the trail of battle as clearly as if he were a spectator in the arena. It began with the thump of screws as the two sister ships began forcing their way through the cold waters of the North Sea, followed only minutes later by the high speed whine of surface turbines, alerted by their own hydrophones and giving chase like greyhounds in the slips. The first submarine could be heard zigzagging, changing course, trying to find shelter in the underwater thermoclines which might hide and confuse the pursuers, but soon they could hear the crump of falling depth charges. You didn’t need a hydrophone to pick up their unmistakable sound. That was when U-494 began to put on a little speed, hiding behind the noise of battle, slipping through the gap they hoped had been torn in the defences.
There was nothing for Hencke to do, there was nothing for anyone to do, but pray. He tried to concentrate on distractions, even embracing his memories to stave off the fear and the tomb-like claustrophobia, while the sweat poured down his face and splashed onto the bare metal plates beneath his feet.
The second submarine was being attacked now, but all the time the sound of combat was drifting further away. And still no one had picked them up. ‘God help those poor bastards,’ the veteran muttered through clenched teeth as the cacophony of underwater explosions increased.
‘But save a little for us,’ whispered the youth.
In the control room the hydrophone operator was reporting the action of battle. ‘Submarine engines stopped … can’t tell whether they’ve been hit or are trying to shake them off … more depth charges … engines started again at full speed … more depth charges, there seem to be at least three of the bastards circling above …’ He tried to clear the grit from his voice and swallowed his words along with it. But there was little need for his commentary; every man on board could hear the steady, insistent clamour of depth charges far away. When at last he looked up at the captain, his anguish told the story. The U-boat had been hit. Its race was nearing its end. ‘Sounds like one of the engines has stopped … tanks being blown … they’re trying for the surface but …’ He could hear the futile, ragged whine of the U-boat’s screw, more depth charges dropping on and around the stricken craft and, with an awesome finality, the sound of the pressure hull being crushed. He shook his head.
‘OK,’ cut in Captain Eling. ‘Time to get out of here. Bring her up to snorkel height and engines to full!’ he commanded. The air-breathing snorkel broke surface, allowing the powerful diesels to kick in, and there was an immediate surge of power as the Diesel Obermaschinist threw the lever that poured fuel down the throats of the engines. There was a pounding from the propeller shafts, the boat vibrated, even the crockery rattled. The pretence was over.
Eling flicked a switch above his head and spoke into a mouthpiece. ‘This is the Captain. U-909 is gone.’ A slight pause. ‘Good luck to you all.’
‘You marvellous bloody idiot!’ the hydrophone operator exclaimed. ‘Oesten’s boat. He’s making enough noise to wake the Bismarck!’ He bit his lip to control his uncharacteristic excitement. ‘He’s doubled back, bearing north-west.’
The captain had grabbed the hydrophone headset, listening for himself. ‘He’s trying to draw them off and give us as much cover as he can,’ he said, sharing with the rest of the crew, but quickly he grew silent, unable to find the words as the sacrifice was offered up and greedily accepted. Eventually he muttered between clenched teeth. ‘They’re on to him, caught him in their asdic. Two, maybe three of them.’ The crump of depth charges was faint, in the distance, scarcely audible above the sound of the stretched engines. More minutes passed until he had heard enough. Reluctantly he handed the headset back to the hydrophone operator and moved across to the intercom. ‘Gentlemen, we’re on our own now.’
They had no time to grieve. It was precisely four seconds later when they heard the sound of asdic pinging across the steel hull of their craft, reaching out for them, grabbing at them, pouring ice into their hearts.
Josef Goebbels sat stroking the blonde hair of his youngest child, Heidi, not yet six. She had fallen asleep in his arms as he told stories of fiery dragons and shining knights, and she lay with a look of sublime peace, oblivious to the noise. Across the room her five brothers and sisters, directed by the eldest, Helga, were singing to the accompaniment of an accordion, and as their treble voices rose higher and higher the faces of their parents glowed with pride. The mood of celebration was being matched at many points around the Bunker and Reich Chancellery, although nowhere with such simplicity or innocence.
‘They sing like angels,’ he whispered.
‘Didn’t you once write that children were the bright ideas of God?’
He looked up to share a momentary smile with his wife, a rare event nowadays. They had long since ceased sharing anything of personal value, beyond the children. And their devotion to the Fuehrer. It was that which had kept them together – or, more accurately, his explicit refusal to allow them to part and his instructions to continue with their hollow form of marriage. He couldn’t afford a public scandal amongst the Party leadership. So their spats and screaming rows and infidelities had been covered up – after all, who better than the Minister of Propaganda to ensure not only what was printed, but what was left out of the newspapers. It had always been an unlikely alliance, the diminutive stump-legged academic with the crooked teeth, pinched face and a body which looked as if it had been squeezed in a vice, matched against the highly-strung society beauty covered in expensive silk from the finest Italian couturière. But there were the children, it hadn’t all been wasted.
‘Josef, there can be no doubt, can there?’
They broke off to join in the singing of the chorus before he answered her.
‘No, Magda. I heard it myself on the BBC and the news has been repeated for several hours. The American radio is playing solemn military music. There’s no shred of doubt. Roosevelt is dead.’
‘The Fuehrer is so happy, and I am so happy for him …’
Goebbels had heard the news driving back from an inspection of the front. He had immediately telephoned the Fuehrer, only to discover Magda already with him, celebrating. She often saw as much of the Fuehrer as he did, and had always had a more personal relationship. Again, as he had many times over the years, he wondered whether they had been lovers. He once overheard an adjutant in the Reich Chancellery joking that he could hear Magda’s ovaries clanging every time she entered the same room as the Fuehrer. Goebbels had the adjutant posted to the Russian Front, but he couldn’t dispose of his own suspicions so easily. On another occasion she had come back from one of the intimate tea parties, just the Fuehrer with Magda and one of the secretaries, and she had been flushed with pleasure and physical energy. She had insisted they make love and had been drenched in her own excitement before she had even taken off her clothes. And she had always been viciously jealous of Eva Braun.
But, no, decided Goebbels, it was probably not so, just an affair that had never grown beyond the idea and the wish. In any case, what did it really matter, when he and the Fuehrer were building the greatest Reich Europe had ever known and when, at their desperate hour of need, fate was once again smiling on them?