Our first victim   CHAPTER VI  OUR FIRST VICTIM Rio de Janeiro sunk by Orzel at the eve of invasion of Norway. Source: Jerzy Pertek, Wielkie dni małej floty. Back Next THE early morning of Sunday, 7th April, finds us in position on our sector. We dive at dawn. Through the periscope can be seen the rocky, snow-covered coast-line of the Norwegian fiords which, reflected on the glassy surface of the sea, forms a lovely, slightly indistinct picture. The somewhat similar climatic conditions, subconsciously, direct our thoughts far away to our native country. One remarks on the Polish winter, another recalls some country custom, a third gives full rein to his imagination as he wonders aloud how things are in his own home town or village. Has the ice broken on the river yet? Has the spring sun begun to melt that mantle of snow, so studded at this time with tiny spring flowers?
'It's nearly eighteen months since I was last at home,' says Petty Officer H.
'Same here,' adds Marek.' Christmas 1938 I was with my family, Easter 1939 with other friends still on Polish soil, but the next holidays I had to spend abroad.'
'Remember, Eryk, how we were all expecting war to break out at any moment?'
'Yes, surely,' I replied shortly. 'But, on the whole, I think it is better to know one way or the other; I hate times of uncertainty, especially of this kind. But why philosophize about it. Itłs not our job, better leave that to the experts,ł I say with an air of finality.
For the next few moments the conversation of the crew absorbs my attention. The sailors are reminding themselves of their families. They must have them constantly in mind, for they remember the very minutest details; things that to a stranger would mean next to nothing, but which for the men themselves are specially dear and important, A tone of voice, a passing facial expression, a grace of movement which is plain for all to see; these speak for themselves as keepsakes of the heart. Only a few of the men have photographs with them, fewer still have letters. These are more than keepsakes for they belong to the world of treasures. For the most part, the men had their last leave at home more than a year ago, at Christmas. This may be the reason why, although it is April and Easter is the nearer, the missed Polish Christmas is the feast that mostly occupies the minds of all of us. At first I listen to what the others have to tell, but after a time I let my own reminiscences have full sway. My last Christmas was spent at home in a Polish village. On the afternoon of that day we decorated our Christmas tree in the dining-room. The smell of the fresh pine filled the whole house. Setting up this small tree was one of our greatest pleasures. Sad to relate, we could hardly be called conscientious about it, because at least half the supply of goodies and fruit designed expressly to hang upon the twigs, perished miserably in the abyss of the decorators' stomachs. In spite of this, our tree really did look beautiful, especially after all the candles had been lit. This covered up somewhat the ominous gaps in the confectionery.
The evening arrived... We waited until the first glimmer of a star showed in the sky. This was the sign that the traditional Christmas Eve supper could commence. We sat down at a large table covered first of all with a layer of hay, over which was spread the tablecloth. The hay is a symbol which reminds us that the Christ child also had hay in His crib as His first bedding. Before starting the meal we all took a portion of blessed bread, wishing everybody the compliments of the season. After supper... the presents! How many joys and surprises! We spent the time until midnight singing old-time Polish Christmas carols. Then we all went together to the Midnight Mass. A short time before, fresh snow had fallen - lots of it. The tingling of small bells could be heard from the harness of the sleigh teams and, now and again, the creak of snow pressed hard by the runners. Over and above, the firmament, strewed with milliards of stars, sparkled and twinkled with lights of all kinds and colours. It seemed determined to make known to everybody its share in the common happiness and exultation of men's hearts throughout the world on this Greatest of Nights.
The church was crowded. I could see a number of well-known faces. I was sitting close to my parents; next to them were some neighbours. Between them I perceived the pretty little face of my fiancée. She saw me too, and smiled...
Boom... boom... Dear remembrances and dreams were rudely broken by the far-off sound of explosions. Several together, then a minute of silence, followed by another one. This succession of sounds is repeated for some time. The War is reminding us of its existence. Experienced men in the submarine pronounce unanimously that it is the fire of heavy guns. I listen intently to these noises with a pleasant thrill. At last, it seems, something is going to happen. At last God will perhaps permit that we go through some real experiences.
'Marek - firing.'
'I hear it,' he replies in a low voice.
'Perhaps the British Fleet are having a smack at Jerry.'
'At last,' he answers in the same tone. We both understand each other, as always.
I never - though I later made many inquiries - learnt the reason for those shots. Sound travels, especially through water, great distances. This time the periscope, although it magnifies considerably, gives no answer. The riddle, for the time being at least, must rest unsolved. Later in the evening I go on the bridge. Marek is on watch. It is a lovely, calm, starlit night. There is almost poetry in the air.
'Look over there at the shore, Eryk! It seems to breathe peace.'
The remark was just. Accustomed to the black-out, we gaze almost with anxiety at the illuminated houses and cottages. Look, for instance, at that town! It appears just as in the guide-book plan, the direction of the streets, the parks and the entrance to the harbour. A small cruising liner, brilliantly lit, is just leaving. Snatches of a jazz band reach us from the upper deck. We can make out through our glasses, pairs of lovers strolling about the decks or nestled closely in corners. Some kind of supper-dance is in progress.
As a seaman, I gaze with equal satisfaction at the various mark-buoys, leading lights, etc., for it is some time since we have sighted these, too. I return to the crew space with a feeling of frustration, being so near and yet so far. It can best be described, I think, by two simple words, representing two extremes, two worlds. Peace and War, they and we.
The second day on our sector, 8th April, I go on watch in the control-room at eight o'clock in the morning. I have been there only a short time when the Torpedo Officer now the Officer of the Watch, calls me to the conning-tower, where we start measurments of our turning circle. At first sight, this activity looks rather mysterious, and perhaps a trifle meticulous. In reality, the point of the matter is that it is necessary to determine the time in which the submarine will describe a full circle, at a given degree of helm, and, of course, at a steady speed.
Every now and again the periscope goes up. It is a beautiful day, sea all around us except for a narrow strip of coast to the northward. This is all that can be seen on the surface. At about eleven o'clock the measurements are completed, and we start to embody them in a series of tables.
The periscope goes up again.
'Have a look now,' says the Officer of the Watch, 'and tell me what you see.'
I turn the periscope slowly through 360 degrees. I have completed the circle of the horizon, and have nothing to report. I repeat this performance as slowly as possible. At length, towards the south, I perceive something that looks like a cloud of smoke rising up ever so slowly, from the line where sea and sky meet. It was this that the Lieutenant had observed.
'I can see now, sir, quite clearly; it's funnel smoke,' I report to the Officer of the Watch who, it seems to me, is of the same opinion, for he nods his head in full approbation.
'Probably another bloody neutral,' he mutters, half to himself, 'but never mind, report it to the Captain.' After a few minutes Lieut.-Commander Grudzinski comes into the conning-tower. 'She looks like a big ship, a merchantman, of course,' he says. 'I'm not quite sure, but it seems to me that her course is at right angles to ours. Decrease speed.'
I move the handle of the engine-room telegraph from 'Half Speed Ahead' to 'Slow Speed Ahead'. The speed decreases from seven knots to three. The reason for this order is that the Captain wishes to let the ship pass ahead fairly close to the bows of the submarine. When, about twenty minutes later, I have another look through the periscope at the object of our interest, I can see her plainly, although a small patch of fog seems to increase the distance. Meanwhile the Liaison Officer arrives in the conning-tower. We begin to discuss the suspicious nature of her course, which leads direct from the German coast, and on this account the Commanding Officer decides to examine the ship in any case.
'Let's hope she's German,' I pray earnestly, while at the same time I am pressed more and more tightly to the sides of the small conning-tower, now really packed with people. My predicament is observed, and the Officer of the Watch gives me a little more room by sitting on the chart table.
'I can't see her flag,' says the Captain, after a longer moment of observation.
'No more could I, sir,' reports the Lieutenant; 'pretty fishy, I think,' he adds, less officially.
'Did you hear that, sir?' Petty Officer Sz. whispers in my ear. 'I'm ready to bet you a quid that it's one of those hulking German brutes.' It is his luck, as a helmsman, to have his watch here.
This is not the right time to make my reply, as the Captain is giving the orders which usually precede an investigation of this kind. 'Descent Alarm.' The buzzers repeat this decision of Lieut.-Commander Grudzinski, and into the control-room begin to file the tall shapes of the sailors dressed in belt equipment, ammunition pouches and with rifles in their hands. Some of them are specialists in different languages.
'Star of the Sea' takes a last-minute glance at a Norwegian dictionary, for though by his own showing he is an expert in this language, he does not seem too sure of his memory. The detachment is under the command of the First Lieutenant. Close to him is Marek. Both carry revolvers.
'The ship is right ahead now,' reports the Torpedo Officer from the periscope.
'Half speed ahead,' orders the Captain, and himself moves the handle of the engine-room telegraph. 'Bring the first two bow torpedo tubes to the ready. What about the detachment?' he asked the control-room.
'Ready, sir,' reports the First Lieutenant.
'Very good. Just a minute,' he says to the Officer of the Watch, who is absorbed in his observation. The Captain relieves him at the periscope. 'Port five - ten - amidships - steady!' He jerks out the orders to the helm.
After these somewhat brief and stereotyped words, silence reigns inside the submarine. What will the decision be? That is the paramount question. The seconds drag out heavily in the tension of waiting.
'Ah, I'm practically certain she's a German liner. The name is - let's see - Rio de Janeiro. The home port has been painted out, but... Port five... steady! I can see now - ...'burg... Ham-burg! Hamburg - these Huns have painted rottenly. We'll surface. You,' he says to the First Lieutenant, 'stand by to blow the ballast tanks.'
Almost stunned by this news from the mouth of the Captain himself, I am overcome with joy. I cannot describe the condition in which I now find myself. At last we have caught a German. Can any greater joy be imagined? I doubt it, at any rate in our life and profession.
The ballast tanks are blown and Orzel comes to the surface. A second later we are all on the bridge. Never before or since have I covered that short space so swiftly.
Meanwhile the Captain has ordered 'Up signal mast. Hoist in International Code...' And he names the flags.
I close my eyes; blinded by the noonday sun. But where is this ship? Is she really so far? I had forgotten, once more, the first truth about the periscope, that it magnifies and brings every object much closer. I had thought, especially after the Captain's last words in the conning-tower when he had read off the ship's name and port of origin, that we should surface just astern of the enemy, but I find instead that we are a good seven or eight cables away. I try to remember the meaning of the flag hoist. Ah - I remember: Stop engines. The Master with ship's papers is to report on board this ship immediately.
Unfortunately the effect of this signal seemed to be the exact opposite. Rio de Janeiro has evidently increased speed and she turns off her course a little to port in the direction of the nearest coast-line and towards the territorial waters of the neutral Norwegian state.
'Full speed ahead,' quietly orders the Captain.
The engines answer with a roar, and Orzel, in the wake of the fugitive, cuts through the smooth water. Our speed is over twenty knots; in any case far greater than the speed of the unlucky victim.
'The blighters don't want to speak to us,' growls the First Lieutenant, 'but they will!' He points at the machine gun, and lets fly at the enemy's hull with a series of rounds. Hollow cracks point to the accuracy of his aim and show that our bullets are hitting where they should.
'Good work,' says the Captain, with a smile. 'They are hoisting a reply.'
'And stopping, too!' adds the First Lieutenant.
We can now see, flying from the yard-arm of the suspicious-looking and almost certainly enemy ship, a pendant with white and red stripes. This means in International Code that our signal has been read and understood. The speed of Rio de Janeiro decreases more and more with every minute. True, the ship is still moving forward through the water with her own headway, but the propellers are not revolving and, on the upper deck, men appear to be lowering a boat.
From the seaward side Orzel turns head on to the captive runaway, with torpedo tubes pointing in her direction.
The barrels of the guns are also threatening her, but, unfortunately, liberally only the barrels. The breeches had been confiscated during that trying period of internment by the 'influential' Government of Estonia, only too plainly under German influence.
The enemy, however, doesn't know this, and is, I suppose, grateful that we stopped him with machine-gun fire rather than with fire from 4-inch guns. We also are grateful for this, especially the Gunner's Mate, Petty Officer Sz. who, from the conning-tower, rather resembles a broadcast announcer supplying news to the inside of the submarine.
'He's not exactly hurrying,' states the First Lieutenant, looking through his glasses at the shape of the Master, our 'invited guest', who is getting down into the boat very slowly indeed. 'May I make him have a little more enthusiasm, sir?' offers Petty Officer Ol., fingering the trigger of the machine gun.
'Not yet. Too early for that,' the First Lieutenant restrains him. But, as a matter of fact, he is at heart all against such procedure, and in his private opinion there is only one solution - to cease playing at International Sea Law and at once to send a torpedo. At length, he can contain his thoughts no longer, for he says, 'Captain, sir, this Master's boat at any rate is keeping the same distance all the time. Fifty yards from the ship, no more - no less. They haven't the slightest intention of coming over here.'
'You're right,' replies Lieut.-Commander Grudzinski. 'It's over a quarter of an hour since we stopped them.'
'Two drifters from the Norwegian coast are sailing towards us,' reports a signalman.
'Very good,' answers the Captain and, at the same time, repeats to the Wireless Officer a message that they have just overheard a signal in a strange code, sent from a very short range. ' Listen carefully for anything further,' he concludes, and now turns to the First Lieutenant with a smile, 'We shall do what you've been wanting from the beginning, because they are trying to fetch aircraft over us.'
'Yes, that's what I think their message was for,' agrees the First Lieutenant.
'One fast motor-boat from the coast,' the signal-man announces.
'Thank you, that's enough, hoist the flag signal: Abandon ship immediately. Intend to fire torpedo in five minutes' time.'
The smile of joy disappears from my face. Once again we are being too kind to the Germans. If they were in our place, would they behave in the same way as we are doing now, giving the necessary time to save the lives of all the enemy's crew? Never! I look around at those present. I am not alone in this belief. We Poles, in this respect, are one united family; the eyes of all shining with an unusual brightness, bear witness to it.
Only one thinks that everything is going quite satisfactorily and that is the British Liaison Officer. We can understand him very well. He hasn't yet had occasion to discover personally the true face of our joint enemy. A perfect gentleman himself, he supposes that his adversary belongs to the same order of beings. He forgets, or surely doesn't yet know, that Hitlerism kills in a man everything that is human and noble, leaving only the rest.
The rest... Better not to write about that. The future will open the eyes of the whole world. It is only a question of time; nothing more.
Our signal hoist is fluttering in the breeze. It is understood. Soon we see the reply. Nevertheless no change is visible in the scene before us. Just as before, keeping a steady 50 yards from their ship, sits the Master with another individual who imitates, for what reason I cannot imagine, the motions of rowing. The upper deck of the ship, as before, seems to be devoid of life in spite of the passage of time, which has now reached to within three minutes of the allotted span.
'Everything ready?' the Captain asks the Torpedo Officer.
'Aye, aye, sir.'
'Good. We will fire only one torpedo. I think that will be enough to sink her. Still, it's true she's quite big. And what about the depth setting?'
'I put it at six feet, sir, for the reason that she doesn't seem to be deeply loaded.'
'You're right. I wonder what cargo she's carrying?'
'Damned if I know,' interpolates the First Lieutenant. 'How much time have we got?'
'One minute,' answers the Captain, looking all the time at his watch.
My heart almost leaped into my mouth. Only half a minute more... fifteen seconds, and ten... NOW!
The Torpedo Officer had previously come down from the bridge of the conning-tower and reported to the Captain, 'Numbers two and three torpedo tubes ready, lamps burning, sir.'
Lieut.-Commander Grudzinski drops his hand and orders 'Number two tube flood!'
In reply we heard the faint noise of water rushing to fill the torpedo tube indicated, and the submarine is almost imperceptibly inclined by the bow.
'Tube floded, sir,' comes the report from the conning-tower, with the fresh gleam of the red light on the control-board.
A dull silence prevails in the inside of the boat. One hears only the monotonous lapping of the waves, as the engines are stopped, and quickened breathing of the crew.
'Stand by,' shouts the Captain, testing for the last time the accuracy of his aim. He does this very calmly, without a trace of nerves, as befits the Commanding Officer of a submarine.
'Number two, fire!' He delivers the short order, putting up his glasses in the direction of the enemy.
I feel the slight recoil of the whole boat. Yes, it was the firing of the torpedo. On the blue-green surface of the sea, ahead of Orzel's bows, the steel shape of the torpedo shows itself for an instant, but quickly returns to its set depth. And now only a faint white streak, following after its seething propellors, marks the track. Steadily lengthening and dead straight the line closes in on the Rio. Already it is very near...
A plume of fire, steam and smoke towers above the enemy vessel amidships.
'Target hit!' I roar, quite forgetting discipline. Fortunately nobody pays any attention to me.
The dense mass of smoke grows continuously, but the blast of the explosion only now makes itself felt. I take a quick glance at my watch. It is five past twelve. At that time on the 8th of April 1940 the first torpedo sent from a Polish warship hit the enemy.
'Where on earth have they come from?' says the Captain, keeping his glasses to his eyes.
'Who?' I ask, nudging one of the signalmen.
'Have a look for yourself, sir,' he answers, kindly handing me his glasses. I grab hold of them quickly, forgetting even to thank him, for the sight I now see absorbs my attention completely.
At the bow and the stern of the torpedoed victim the decks are covered with human shapes, dressed in grey-green uniforms. They run helpless, some of them throwing pieces of wood and jumping after them into the water. It is panic in the full meaning of the word - panic such as can best be left to the imagination.
Slowly the German ship begins to heel over to starboard. Amidships, between bridge and funnel, can be seen a large aperture, black and smoking. Above the ship the column of smoke rises higher and higher. It spreads and at length, somewhere in a remote strata of atmosphere, meets a stronger wind which carries it away at a right angle.
But those men? It is out of the question that those hundreds of men are made up entirely of members of the crew. Perhaps she is a transport of some kind, but from where, and whither bound, and who she carries, is a matter for continual conjecture.
'They have forgotten to hoist out the life-boats,' says the First Lieutenant with irony. ' What a shame!'
He was not mistaken, for the life-boats remained hoisted at their davits. On the other hand, all around the ship were hordes of men taking to the water - which must have been a most unpleasant business.
'Aircraft approaching from the Norwegian coast,' reports the signalman.
'Diving stations,' is the Captain's reply, pushing the alarm buzzer. We go below hurriedly. The last one to go, who also closes the hatch cover, is the Captain.
I am left in the control-room. The Captain and First Lieutenant remain in the conning-tower. The Torpedo Officer, without saying a word, shakes the hand of Chief Petty Officer St., the torpedo rating.
'Congratulations, sir,' says the old Chief, with deep emotion. 'And my thanks to you all. It went off just as in the drill-book; perfectly. Good show, torpedo men!'
Unfortunately I don't hear the end of the Lieutenant's speech for it is interrupted by an observation from the Captain who, on looking through the periscope, announces that the Norwegian trawlers have arrived at the sinking Rio and are engaged in rescuing survivors.
'Quite unnecessary,' expressed Petty Officer Ol.
'In my opinion, quite wrong,' I blurt out in anger, secretly cursing the mistaken humanity of these Norwegians, and with them that of all remaining European neutrals.
The order comes for the change of watches. I then return to the bow crew space, where the whole action is being discussed down to the smallest details. The torpedo men walk about with their chests visibly expanded. The value of their share of the work is plain for all to see. The approval of the Torpedo 0fficer, who is usually most moderate in expressing his satisfaction, raises their worth considerably in our eyes. Their moment has been as important as it was unforgettable.
We start discussing the presence on board the torpedoed ship of so many soldiers. Different solutions are given. Some of them quite fantastic as, for instance, preparation for the invasion of Great Britain. It is always difficult to express a logical opinion when there is so much that is unknown and mysterious.
The liner Rio de Janeiro refuses to sink. She has heeled over considerably to starboard, but that is all. They must have closed all watertight doors below decks; besides this, the vessel is very big and the calm, quiet sea helps her to remain above the surface. News of this kind, from time to time, filters through from control-room to crew space. Every moment there is something new, and I keep my ears pricked to catch everything. The plane has now been identified as Norwegian. It had flown over to ascertain the nature of the explosion and to confirm that the affair had taken place outside territorial waters.
Apparently it has satisfied itself on these two questions for it turns away, leaving further action to its brother trawlers.
This they took as quickly and as well as they were able. They find that the vessel is apparently not about to sink and as these trawlers are very small, they confine their activities to picking up survivors and transferring them to the damaged transport.
They are too far from the land to take them all ashore. And what would be the use? Tugs could be summoned which could tow the stricken ship into harbour with all the men on board, of whom there were more and more arriving on deck each minute.
Lieut.-Commander Grudzinski sees through these kind, if cunning, plans immediately.
We are steering in a circle with the gloomy, heeled-over Rio de Janeiro as centre.
Where we are going, nobody knows except the submarine's Captain. And he keeps his intentions to himself. But at least he consoles us with the promise of sending them one more torpedo.
Excellent! Never mind if most of the survivors return to the liner. It doesn't matter about that. They will hardly have time to dry after their first bathe, for the second torpedo will surely do its work even better.
One o'clock has just passed when the telephone bell rings. It is the Torpedo Officer asking the Chief Torpedo Gunner's Mate whether everything is ready to fire from number three tube.
'Yes, sir! Ready!' is the reply.
Once again silence reigns in the space. I don't know quite why we are talking in lowered voices. The eyes of all present are turned in the direction of the bows. We might almost be said to be looking with tenderness and devotion at the white-painted torpedo tubes, which hide in their interior such death-dealing and devastation.
We feel a great joy at the possibility of revenging the Polish destroyer Wicher and the mine-laying cruiser Gryf, and for all the other facts I know and will come to know in the future.
'They have picked them all up already,' Marek conveys the news from the control-room.' We are going to fire another torpedo, this time from the opposite side. I'm sure that will do for them.' The second torpedo...
A loud splash interrupts his speech.
Chief Petty Officer St., in answer to a signal from the conning-tower, has opened the bow cap of number three tube, flooding the tube with water, thus making it possible to fire. As soon as this is done, a red light begins to show on the board above the tube, and a similar light burns in front of the Torpedo Officer in the conning-tower.
When the submarine has dived, the aiming of the torpedo is done through the periscope. As soon as the boat is on the required course, the button is pressed. The current runs to the electromagnets, which in turn open the pressure air-bottle. There the work of electricity comes to an end, for the later functions, such as the release of the torpedo from its side stops and its initial propulsion from the tube, are done by an air pressure of about 500 lb. per square inch.
Just at this moment we hear a stifled hissing noise, accompanied by a light shock, in the nature of a recoil. A small cloud of vapour appears round the after part and rear door of the tube. This is due to the compressed air forcing the water through certain joints in a fine spray.
Torpedo fired...
I look at my wrist-watch. It is 13.15. Ten seconds go by... twenty... one minute.
The next moment a tremendous roar is heard which penetrates to the inside of the submarine.
The result is evident.
We have found the target for the second time. I am soon able to discover the consequences. I hurry to the control-room.
'The torpedo got her almost at the same place on the other side, and she broke in two straight away,' is the news which greets me from the Torpedo Officer. 'Come inside the conning-tower; I'm sure the Captain will let you see.' I don't need asking twice.
'You're making for the periscopes, I suppose?' the Captain asks me a moment later.
'Yes please, sir, if I may.'
'Carry on. Oh, by the way, are you any good at taking photographs?'
'Well, sir, I've been taking photographs for about eight years,' I answer.
'Good! You might take some with my camera. I'm afraid I'm not much good at it myself.'
I take the Captain's camera and look through the periscope at the outside world. What a picture! Rio de Janeiro is broken in two pieces. Already the bow portion is sinking... gone... It has vanished beneath the surface, and only the stern stands out high above the water. There you can see the propellers, rudder... I put the camera, to the eye-piece of the periscope and try to take some pictures with various apertures, exposures and distances. But I don't somehow think they will turn out well, as it is the first time in my life I have used a camera in such circumstances. For this kind of thing I have had no practice at all. But still, perhaps I may be lucky. Who knows? Once again I look outside. The Norwegian trawlers have given up any further rescue work and are hurrying to the coast at full speed. Apparently they have no wish to endanger themselves any longer.
This happening was a cause for rejoicing, but unfortunately I must finish my observation because all this time more and more have been queueing up for the periscope.
Meanwhile the ship has sunk, and there is nothing more to look at, so we disperse to various parts of the boat. The chief cook announces that dinner is ready; it is already late owing to the morning's happenings.
During the meal the spirits of the crew run high. I have never seen anything like it. Lively quips and funny stories are bandied about the table. Petty Officer Sz. feels like having recourse to a glass of whisky. This pleasure, alas, cannot possibly be arranged before the end of the patrol. I relieve my opposite number on watch so that he can have time for his meal. I take a look at our course plotted on the chart in the conning-tower. We are still hovering obstinately round the sunken victim.
'Is there any help arriving for the Germans?' I ask the First Lieutenant.
'No, the aircraft was over again a few minutes ago, but hasn't sent any assistance.'
'Have they any chance themselves of making the coast?' I ask again.
'Absolutely none. It would have been different if they had hoisted out their boats, but as they didn't, I can see only one way, and that is to swim for it. It's true, they've got life-saving jackets, but at this time of year it is quite impossible to keep going in the water longer than an hour, At the very most, two.... Just look at the snow-covered coast-line; those fiords. It's not England, you know, with the full bloom of spring.'
I have to admit the truth of this.
A trifle subdued, I volunteer no further remarks, and spend the rest of the time in silence, waiting for the proper watch to finish their dinner.
It was four o'clock in the afternoon, or perhaps a little later, when the news received from the conning-tower begins once more to arouse us by its sensational tone.
There appear floating on the surface above the submarine a number of bodies from the Rio de Janeiro.
Accurate observation by periscope assures us, on examination of their uniforms, that without doubt we are dealing with some invading troops. At the same time, however, they lack any characteristic mark which would make it possible to identify them with certainty as German soldiers.
Intrigued by these events I state that I am going to the conning-tower to collect more accurate news. In the ward-room I meet the Torpedo Officer who is writing something in the log, and seems a little excited. It is clear that his mind, too, is engaged on the problems connected with this mysterious affair. In the control-room are more officers. I stop here as the subject of their conversation interests me greatly. 'It would be senseless,' says the Captain to the First Lieutenant. 'In any case those men have been in the water over three hours already, there isn't the slightest chance of any of them being alive.'
'I doubt it too, sir, but as far as I can see it is the only way of clearing up this matter,' insists the First Lieutenant.
'What's up now?' I ask the Boatswain in a low voice.
'The First Lieutenant wants to surface and bring one of these soldiers inside the submarine. Good idea, I think, What do you say, sir?'
'Yes, good; but I'm afraid there's nothing doing. I don't think the Captain will allow it; it's too late now.' I finish this sentence on my way to the conning-tower where the Navigating Officer is keeping watch.
'A lot of pig's snouts, sir,' is Petty Officer Sz.'s greeting as he busies himself with the steering-wheel.
'Where?' l ask confusedly, not yet following his meaning.
'There! Up top!' the helmsman explains with a slight sweep. 'Humour of this kind is rather out of place, Sz. How can you say that? There are only corpses left now,' admonishes the Sub-Lieutenant.
'Once a snout always a snout. Alive or dead makes no difference,' repeats Sz., full of venom. 'I know those *** too well.'
'Stand by, I'm about to raise periscope,' says the Officer of the Watch to the men on the hydroplanes.
A warning of this kind is necessary as, at the moment of carrying out the operation, the submarine gains additional displacement and a moment's inattention, especially in rough weather, is sufficient to bring the boat inadvertently to the surface.
The periscope is ready. The Officer of the Watch grasps the handles and puts his eyes to the lenses. Such a picture will be familiar to many from films or magazine pictures of submarine life.
'Ah, they're close to us again,' he says. 'Look!'
At what distance it would be difficult to say, but sufficiently near to be able to determine their features, are three human shapes, drifting farther out to sea on the ebbing tide. Their life-saving jackets keep them on the surface, but only hold them up by their armpits.. The heads, drooping from exhaustion, are plunged in the water.
They keep together with folds of uniform clutched tightly in a last spasmodic grasp. The one on the right is face downwards in the water. It is better so. In spite of the fact that they are our mortal enemies, the faces of the two others, livid red and screwed up in a contortion of dread and fatigue, leave a pitiful impression. Those two I shall never forget. They were both boys; capless, with yellowish hair. Enough sentimentality. Maybe they are amongst the very ones who wrenched our Poland from us with fire and sword. No! we must not be sorry. The war against Germany, wherever it is waged, must be hard, severe and inflexible. In this matter we must adjust ourselves to the methods forced on us by our adversary.
I return to the crew space, but have nothing to do there, The floor has been taken up, table and bunks made up, as the torpedo men are engaged in loading numbers two and three tubes with fresh torpedoes from the magazine below to replace those fired. It looks to me as though this work will go on for some hours. I must go to the stern space and see what is happening there...
It is evening, and I pass by the control-room just at the moment of surfacing. It is exceptionally early to-day; about ten past eight. A moment later the radio starts up. The receiver is in the ward-room, and there are loud-speakers in every space. The programme, of course, is everywhere the same. For once, nobody wants to listen to music. We are eager for the news. At this moment the name Rio de Janeiro leaps out at us. Unfortunately it is in Norwegian, so we understand nothing. 'Star of the Sea', our 'specialist' in this language, explains carefully that it happens to be just in that one dialect that he cannot follow. Our only hope now is the British news. This will be soon; only five minutes to wait.
The clock strikes nine and the announcer begins to read the news bulletin: 'At noon to-day, a British submarine on patrol torpedoed and sank off Lillesand on the south coast of Norway the German supply ship Rio de Janeiro of 6,800 tons. The Rio de Janeiro, a Hamburg liner, had on board about 400 soldiers and war material.
I don't wait to hear any more. I fall on Marek's neck and give him a resounding smack on both cheeks. Nobody wonders at this manifestation of joy. The general atmosphere is one of exaltation. They shake hands and look indescribably happy. At last our dreams are realized. 'The greater part of the soldiers in the Rio de Janeiro disappeared with the ship,' continues the announcer.
'Irreparably,' adds 'Star of the Sea'.
'In the early evening to-day another British submarine met one of Hitler's tankers of 4,500 tons...' (I cannot remember the name) 'and sank her also.'
As the news continues we are led to the conclusion that the international situation in the part of Europe closest to us is steadily deteriorating. Thus the item referring to Rio de Janeiro assumes an added significance. Petty Officer So talks in a decided tone about the coming invasion of Norway, but he fails to convince me. I am of the opinion that Germany would rather the Norwegian. people were an ally, and moreover would not succeed in this as the Norwegians are too noble a nation to submit willingly to the demands of a dictator.
Shortly before ten o'clock Marek starts to get ready for his watch. As I have no wish for sleep, I decide to accompany him. We go together to the bridge. The night is as lovely as the last one. Light from the clear disc of the moon touches the waves with silver; it is almost light enough to read. Each beam is reflected a hundred thousand times in the continual rippling and ruffling of the surface of the sea. Far away is the scarcely visible twinkle of lights from harbours, towns and villages.
'A message, sir,' reports a wireless rating to the Torpedo Officer, handing him a written sheet.
'Thank you.'
The Captain enters.
'Captain, sir,' says the Officer of the Watch, 'the Norwegian Government announces that at 23.00 to-night - that is in five minutes' time - they are going to switch off all navigation lights, and observe a black-out over the whole country.'
'A new war,' whisper s Marek.
'Nothing is known yet,' replies Lieut.-Commander Grudzinski, 'but will you, while we still have the chance, find our exact position. After that we shall steer west till 02.00. Don't forget to turn that over to the First Lieutenant. He relieves you, doesn't he?'
'Aye, aye, sir.'
'Good, and tell him also that at 02.00 we alter course 180 degrees. Anyway, I'm not going to sleep, so...'
After these brief instructions we fix the present position of the submarine by means of multi-coloured lights from three lighthouses. I had just written down the last bearing when the lights started to die out. The towns seemed to change slowly into dispersed settlements, the villages into single houses, and finally there remained only a few forgotten lights, but position finding is by now rendered impossible.
It is now almost moonset. The silver-and-gold ball drops lower and lower until in the end it vanishes completely. Darkness reigns over the sea.
Just before midnight we hear distinctly the noise of several aircraft. At the same time light rockets appear over the land. After this, intensive anti-aircraft fire accompanied by louder explosions which we have no difficulty in identifying as bursting bombs.
'Now I'm completely satisfied,' says the Torpedo Officer to Marek and myself, 'but I must say when the first torpedo went off I saw so many soldiers that I had my doubts as to whether they were German. I was really rather afraid they were neutral.'
He breaks off for a moment, because ahead of us on our course is sighted a bright light, vibrating with a ruddy glare, at times dying down, only to be fanned into flame again a few moments later according to the rise and fall of the gusty west wind. 'That's interesting; something on the sea must be burning, there's no land ahead of us,' says the Lieutenant, bending over the chart.
'Better tell the Captain about that.'
'All's well,' explains the Captain, who has just arrived.' It's the tanker which our neighbouring submarine has just sunk. But it's an amazing sight, anyway.'
Through our glasses we see clearly, against the dark-blue, starry background of the sky, large plumes of fire. Above it a thick, dark, curling cloud of smoke slowly and heavily climbs upwards, weaving the most fantastic shapes. The flames are reflected on the sea's surface, glittering with all the colours of the rainbow. It is past midnight. Marek and I go down to the fore space. It is already Monday, the 9th April, and the seventh day of our patrol. We fall asleep to the accompaniment of distant gunfire. It has been an eventful day. © Modern Naval Warfare