up and stepped into the water.
It was incredibly clear and blue. He swam round to the anchor rope, paused then started down, following the line. The sensation of floating in space was, as always, amazing, a silent, private world, sunlight at first, but fading as he descended.
The reef where the anchor was hooked was a forest of coral and sea-grass, fish of every conceivable description, and suddenly, a barracuda that was at least five feet long swerved across his vision and paused, turning towards him threateningly which didn’t bother Baker in the slightest, because barracuda were seldom a threat to anyone.
He checked his dive computer. It not only indicated the depth he was at, but told him how long he was safe there and constantly altered its reading according to any change in depth he made during the dive. He was at this point at seventy feet and he turned and headed over to the left-hand side where the reef slid down to a hundred and eighty. He went over the edge, then changed his mind and went up again. It was amazing how much an extra ten or fifteen feet reduced your bottom time.
There was a reasonably strong current, he could feel it pushing him to one side. He imagined what it must be like when conditions were bad, but he was damned if that was going to stop him having a look at the big drop. The edge of the reef over there was very clearly defined. He paused, holding on to a coral head, and peered over, looking down the cliff face into a great blue vault that stretched into infinity. He went over, descended to eighty feet and started to work his way along.
It was interesting. He noted a considerable amount of coral damage, large sections having been torn away, recently, presumably the result of the hurricane although they were on a fault line here and earth tremors were also common. Some distance ahead there was a very obvious section where what looked like an entire overhang had gone, revealing a wide ledge below, and there was something there, perched on the ledge yet part of it, hanging over. Baker paused for a moment, then approached cautiously.
It was then that he received not only the greatest thrill of his diving career, but the greatest shock of a long life. The object which was pressed on the ledge and partly sticking out over two thousand feet of water was a submarine.
During his naval service Baker had done a training course in a submarine when based in the Philippines. No big deal, just part of general training, but he remembered the lectures, the training films they’d had to watch, mainly Second World War stuff and he recognized what he was looking at instantly. It was a type VII U-boat, by far the most common craft of its kind used by the German Kriegsmarine, the configuration was unmistakable. The conning tower was encrusted with marine growth, but when he approached he could still discern the number on the side, 180. The attack and control-room periscopes were still intact and there was a snorkel. He recalled having heard that the Germans had gradually introduced that as the war progressed, a device that enabled the boat to proceed under water much faster because it was able to use the power of its diesel engines. Approximately two thirds of it rested stern first on the ledge and the prow jutted out into space.
He glanced up, aware of a school of horse-eyed jacks overhead mixed with silversides, then descended to the top of the conning tower and hung on to the bridge rail. Aft was the high gun platform with its 20mm cannon and forward and below him was the deck gun, encrusted, as was most of the surface, with sponge and coral of many colours.
The boat had become a habitat as with all wrecks, fish everywhere, yellow-tail snappers, angel and parrot fish and sergeant-majors and many others. He checked his computer. On the bridge he was at a depth of seventy-five feet and he had only twenty minutes at the most before the need to surface.
He drifted away a little distance to look the U-boat over. Obviously the overhang which had recently been dislodged had provided a kind of canopy for the wreck for years, protecting it from view and, at a site which was seldom visited, it had been enough. That U-boats had worked the area during the Second World War was common knowledge. He’d known one old sailor who’d always insisted that crews would come ashore on St John by night in search of fresh fruit and water, although Baker had always found that one hard to swallow.
He swung over to the starboard side and saw what the trouble had been instantly, a large ragged gash about fifteen feet long in the hull below the conning tower. The poor bastards must have gone down like a stone. He descended, holding on to a jagged coral-encrusted edge, and peered into the control room. It was dark and gloomy in there, silverfish in clouds and he got the spotlight from his dive bag and shone it inside. The periscope shafts were clearly visible, again encrusted like everything else, but the rest was a confusion of twisted metal, wires and pipes. He checked his computer, saw that he had fifteen minutes, hesitated then went inside.
Both the aft and forward watertight doors were closed, but that was standard practice when things got bad. He tried the unlocking wheel on the forward hatch but it was immovable and hopelessly corroded. There were some oxygen bottles, even a belt of some kind of ammunition and, most pathetic thing of all, a few human bones in the sediment of the floor. Amazing that there was any trace at all after so many years.
Suddenly he felt cold. It was as if he was an intruder who shouldn’t be here. He turned to go and his light picked out a handle in the corner, very like a suitcase handle. He reached for it, the sediment stirred and he found himself clutching a small briefcase in some kind of metal, encrusted like everything else. It was enough and he went out through the gash in the hull, drifted up over the edge of the reef and went for the anchor.
He made it with five minutes to spare. Stupid bastard, he told himself, taking such a chance and he ascended just by the book, one foot per second, one hand sliding up the line, the briefcase in the other, leaving the line at twenty feet to swim under the boat and surface at the stern.
He pushed the briefcase on board, then wriggled out of his equipment which was always the worst part. You’re getting old, Henry, he told himself as he scrambled up the ladder and turned to heave his buoyancy jacket and tank on board.
He schooled himself to do everything as normal, stowing away the tank and the equipment following his usual routine. He towelled himself dry, changed into jeans and a fresh denim shirt, all the time ignoring the briefcase. He opened his thermos and poured some coffee, then went and sat in one of the swivel chairs in the stern, drinking and staring at the briefcase encrusted with coral.
The encrusting was superficial more than anything else. He got a wire brush from his tool kit and applied it vigorously and realized at once that the case was made of aluminium. As the surface cleared, the eagle and swastika of the German Kriegsmarine was revealed etched into the top right-hand corner. It was secured by two clips and there was a lock. The clips came up easily enough, but the lid remained obstinately locked, which left him little choice. He found a large screwdriver, forced it in just above the lock and was able to prise open the lid within a few moments. The inside was totally dry, the contents a few photos and several letters bound together by a rubber band. There was also a large diary in red Moroccan leather stamped with a Kriegsmarine insignia in gold.
The photos were of a young woman and two little girls. There was a date on the back of one of them at the start of a handwritten paragraph in German, 8 August 1944. The rest made no sense to him as he didn’t speak the language. There was also a faded snap of a man in Kriegsmarine uniform. He looked about thirty and wore a number of medals including the Knight’s Cross at his throat. Someone special, a real ace from the look of him.
The diary was also in German. The first entry was 30 April 1945 and he recognized the name, Bergen, knew that was a port in Norway. On the flyleaf was an entry he did understand. Korvettenkapitän Paul Friemel, U180, obviously the captain and owner of this diary.
Baker flicked through the pages, totally frustrated at being unable to decipher any of it. There were some twenty-seven entries, sometimes a page for each day, sometimes more. On some
