The Ocean Liner

HMS Tisiphone

HMS Tisiphone, a spanking new Tclass submarine, recently completed by the VickersArmstrong’s engineering works in BarrowinFurness, sliced through the sparkling waves to investigate the results of the morning’s stalk. The mood on board was one of elation. Her crew, led by one of the Royal Navy’s youngest submarine skippers, Lieutenant-Commander George Henry Cottrell, crowded the deck, scanning the water around them. The 4-inch gun was manned, but there was no need for it; the single torpedo they had launched had sent the enemy submarine straight to the bottom. The Germans, as they all agreed, hadn’t even seen them coming.

Tisiphone eased through the floating debris and oil. They were looking for any survivors, but the crew were also eager for souvenirs of their first kill of the war. An enterprising AB was using a boathook to fish objects out of the drink. He was rewarded with a few German sailor’s caps, which were stuffed with kapok, and had floated to the surface. The men squabbled over these trophies eagerly.

‘Is there a boat’s name on any of them?’ Cottrell called out from the conning tower.

‘No, sir.’

They passed by the trash of onions, fragments of rubber and waterlogged debris of all sorts which floated languidly in the swell. A group of life jackets was revealed in a distant trough. The men shouted down to the control room, and Tisiphone nosed towards it.

Cottrell leaned on the rail over the eager ratings. ‘Keep an eye out for submerged wreckage.’

‘Aye-aye, sir.’

‘This one’s alive!’

The shout brought the crew of HMS Tisiphone scrambling to the starboard side to get a look. They had seen several bodies so far, mostly floating face down. But the boathook had pulled in a figure that moved feebly in the water, his pale face stark under a straggling beard, locks of hair plastered across the high forehead.

‘Come on, Fritz.’ Hands hauled the German on to the deck, where he lay dazed and staring. He was uninjured but in a state of shock, shivering violently with the cold and seemingly unable to understand or answer the questions he was asked. There were no insignia to be seen on his overalls. They began to wrap him in a blanket against hypothermia.

German voices could now be heard shouting hoarsely from the sea.

‘There are a few more of the buggers.’

Another four oily and exhausted German sailors were pulled on to the deck.

‘This one’s in a bad way,’ the AB reported. They took off the life jacket and examined the man’s wounds. ‘Looks like he’s been shot.’

‘Shot?’ Cottrell repeated. He clambered down from the conning tower to see the injured survivor at closer hand. Pushing his cap back on his head, he squatted in front of the German, who had been propped up against the turret. The German’s eyes were closed, but he was breathing shallowly. This man was too badly hurt to even tremble with the cold. Tentatively, Cottrell touched his uninjured arm. The man opened his eyes slowly and focused on Cottrell.

‘Hallo, Tommy,’ he murmured.

‘It’s George, actually,’ Cottrell said. ‘Do you speak English?’

‘Little bit.’

‘That makes things easier. What’s your name?’

‘Leutnant zur See Rudolf Hufnagel.’

This was rather too much of a mouthful for Cottrell to attempt. ‘Right. Are you the captain?’

The German shook his head slowly. ‘First Watch Officer.’

‘And the name of your boat?’

‘U-113.’

‘Thank you.’ Cottrell indicated Hufnagel’s wounds. ‘Just to be clear, we didn’t shoot you. We only torpedoed your sub.’

Hufnagel nodded wearily. ‘I know this.’

‘Would you like to tell me who did shoot you?’

The German moved his bedraggled head in the direction of the other survivor, closing his eyes again. ‘That man.’

‘A member of your crew shot you?’

‘He is the captain.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘You must ask him that.’

‘What did he shoot you for?’

‘Mutiny.’

‘Mutiny?’ Cottrell repeated in some surprise.

The medical officer interrupted. ‘I need to tie off that arm, sir. He’s losing a lot of blood.’

‘Yes, I can see that.’ Cottrell stood up to let the medic get at the German. ‘There’s one of our destroyers in the vicinity. She’s heading towards us now. We’re going to get you on her as soon as she arrives. All right?’ He saw Hufnagel nod slightly. ‘In the meantime, we’re going to scout round for any more members of your crew. We’ve got five of you so far.’

Unexpectedly, the first survivor, who had been silent up to now, began to shout in German, his voice hoarse, his expression wild. He was pointing at Hufnagel furiously.

Cottrell looked around at his petty officers. ‘What’s wrong with him?’ Cottrell asked.

‘No idea, sir.’

‘What’s he saying about you?’ Cottrell asked Hufnagel.

‘He says I am a traitor, and that I will be shot when the war is won.’

Cottrell grunted. ‘Can someone shut him up, please.’

The sailor shook the German’s arm brusquely. ‘Stow it, Fritz. The war is all over for you.’