Weber forced himself not to cry out as they dragged him to safety. He knew there was no way this could be done gently. Not down vertical ladders. Anyway, he was black SSA while they were scruffy sailors in the enemy’s khaki. So he clenched his teeth as they hauled him below, through cramped spaces, crammed face to face with those trying to help him. And slam-bang, slam-bang! Hatches closed and lock-wheels spun to shut out the light and air. He made no fuss, but it hurt just the same: raw burns on the back of his head and shoulders; the narrow spaces stank of singed hair and wool, and the sour smoke of burned plastic from the peaks of the Kriegsmarine caps. Weber elbowed the hands off him. He’d do the rest himself. He got down the last ladder unaided and looked round. He was in the control room, a big compartment right under the conning tower. Bright lights, shiny metal, linoleum underfoot. He’d been there many times, but never with the decks trembling to eight diesel engines as the boat went full ahead.
