Chapter 18
One More Voyage
5 a.m., 12 April 1945, North Sea, fifty miles off the coast of Norway
Captain Lündstrom checked the chronometer - it was 0500 hours. He banged his fist angrily against the bulkhead. They should have been on the surface making the most of the darkness to recharge the boat’s flagging batteries, not skulking beneath the water; a stupid waste of the night hours.
‘Shit,’ he muttered to himself.
Time was running out for them. They needed to have at least another three hours on the surface running under diesel to give them enough charge on the batteries. Three hours’ charge would carry them through the next day underwater using as little power as possible, and then they could run the next night on the surface to get the batteries fully charged up.
If they surfaced now, Lündstrom estimated they could run for one hour more before the light of day exposed them, then they were vulnerable for the other two. It was unavoidable, they had to come up, and they had to do it soon.
He cupped his jaw firmly in a hand. His fingers massaged the coarse bristles of his recently grown beard, making long, exaggerated, stroking movements. That was just for show, for the men. His palm was wedged firmly under his chin to stop his head from shaking, a nervous tick that he’d seemed to have developed in the last year. Often, if the shaking was too noticeable, he would blame the cold. It was a convincing enough lie given that the confines of the boat were always damp and he could utter it amidst a cloud of condensation. Nonetheless, it was a bad twitch for a commanding officer to get; a shaking hand could be tucked away in a pocket, or easily folded under an arm. He knew it was getting harder to hide . . . it was definitely getting worse. But then, everything was.
His mind returned to the dilemma at hand.
Surface? . . . Wait? . . . Surface? . . . Wait? . . .
The longer they left it, the longer they’d be exposed up there while they charged. Two hours on the surface in the daylight was a bad place to be these days.
Nine months ago, Lündstrom’s boat, U-1061, a supply vessel, a ‘milk cow’ as they affectionately called them, had been servicing the U-boats that had been sent in to harass the supply ships feeding the Allied forces that had recently taken Normandy. Doenitz had decided, after months of marshalling what was left of his U-boat fleet, that now was the time to strike - to hamstring them while they were still vulnerable and literally just off the beaches. The attacks had been an unmitigated disaster. Lündstrom’s boat had gone in close behind the attack boats. During the principal night of the attack they had sat at periscope depth on the periphery of the action, listening to the cacophony of depth charge explosions and watching the Royal Navy destroyers circling the sea in tightening loops like buzzards around a carcass. Several times during the night Lündstrom distinctly recognised the faint signature sound of steel buckling and collapsing under pressure, the death rattle of another U-boat sent to the bottom, another crew of boys buried within a twisted and compressed tangle of metal.
Of the fifty-six boats that had been sent in, the Royal Navy and Airforce had sunk twenty-six. The U-boats had only managed to sink nineteen Allied vessels.
That had been June 1944. Since then, the English Channel had continued to be a death trap, with Royal Navy patrols densely plotted along the narrow stretch of sea. The last of the U-boats were mostly holed up in Norway and the Baltic Sea, with a few venturing north around the Shetland Isles to the Atlantic to attempt the occasional daring attack on the convoys that now passed largely without incident from America to Britain. U-1061 met these few boats south of the Faroe Isles; they rarely seemed to require replacement torpedoes, just fuel and supplies.
Lündstrom didn’t envy them. The best they could do was silently stalk the convoys. Any attempt to attack a ship was inviting disaster. The best they could hope for was to catch a ship that was falling behind and beyond the protective range of the escort.
They had been making good time yesterday evening, heading towards an arranged rendezvous co-ordinate south-west of the islands, cruising comfortably at eighteen knots under diesel power, when one of his men had spotted a Royal Navy destroyer bearing down on them. The bastards were getting too good at spotting them. They had dived, and within two hours a second destroyer had joined the first. Within four hours they had three Allied vessels circling above.
It seemed the Royal Navy had discovered this part of the North Sea was a rendezvous point and had ships in the area, patrolling it.
Lündstrom and his men had endured nearly eight hours of well-focused depth charging and as this particularly nasty game of hide and seek played out through the night, none of them had had a chance to sleep, even during the lengthy periods between bombardments of unsettling quiet.
There had been a lull now for well over two hours and the men anxiously looked at their captain, aware that time was running out and that he must be agonising over the decision to risk going to periscope depth for a quick reconnoitre.
Leutnant Holm ended a silence that had lasted a long time. ‘Sir?’
Holm was reminding him tactfully. We have to go up soon.
Lündstrom turned to him.
‘Okay, periscope depth.’
The Leutnant barked out the order, and almost immediately the U-boat tilted gently upwards. Lündstrom leaned into the angle of ascent. He looked around the young faces with him. Many of these boys were only seventeen; Hitler Youth hurriedly drafted and half-trained to fill the rapidly depleting ranks of the Kriegsmarine. By comparison, Leutnant Holm, aged nineteen, standing beside him with a face like a choirboy, was an old, seasoned veteran.
He felt the boat tilt further as her stern lifted and she began to rise steeply. He held on to the edge of the map table and looked around the bridge, watching his crew subconsciously lean into the ascent. It was a silly thing but often, when he was ashore and walking up a shallow hill or a ramp, he half expected to hear a rating counting away metres of depth.
The angle of ascent quickly flattened out and he watched and smiled as everyone in the bridge synchronously leaned back in response. The helmsman called out a depth of seven metres.
‘Periscope depth, Captain,’ Holm announced.
Lündstrom grabbed the periscope’s handle and pulled it firmly up. It locked with a clunk into the extended position. He pushed his peaked cap back and hunkered down to look through the viewfinder.
He quickly spun it through 360 degrees, and then again more slowly, before pulling away from it and standing straight.
‘Clear!’ he announced loudly, almost shouting. ‘Thank God for that,’ he whispered, allowing himself the release of those words. Holm, standing next to him, was attempting to suppress a tight-lipped grin. He’d heard. Lündstrom winked at him. The lad undoubtedly had been contemplating a phrase far more colourful.
U-1061 had been fitted with a snorkel, which could be raised to allow them to proceed at periscope depth using the diesel engines. It allowed them to suck in air for the engines and vent the exhaust fumes. But it was only of any use if the sea was calm, which wasn’t often the case here in the North Sea. This morning, however, it seemed fortune was smiling on them. There was a light chop, enough to make it difficult for a plane to spot the snorkel’s wake, but not so rough that it might be submerged by a wave and the air flow blocked. For the first time in eight hours he allowed himself a sigh of relief.
‘Raise the snorkel and let’s get the old girl going,’ he shouted cheerfully. The ratings on the bridge cheered, and Leutnant Holm passed the order on at the top of his lungs. A moment later the submarine was filled with a rhythmic chug and a subtle vibration as the twin MAN diesel engines slowly came to life. There was a thud as the propellers engaged, and U-1061 was, at last, again under way.
It was twenty minutes later, while Lündstrom was enjoying a privilege of rank and taking a leisurely shit, that the radio message came through. It was swiftly decoded on their Kriegsmarine Enigma machine and within minutes of the message’s
arrival a rating tapped apprehensively on the door to the toilet.
‘Captain?’
Lündstrom’s voice sounded muffled through the thin plywood door. ‘For Christ’s sake, can’t a man take a crap in peace? What is it?’
‘Message from U-Bootflotille at Bergen, sir.’
‘Well? What are you waiting for? Slide it under.’
The paper with their orders on slid under the panel door and he reached down and picked it up. He quickly unfolded the paper and scanned the two lines printed on it. What he read there made his heart skip. They were asking U-1061 to return to Bergen and remain there for further orders. He knew the war was now in its final phase, the end game. It seemed at last that someone up there at Admiralty, Doenitz perhaps, had decided enough was enough, that there was little point sending out any more U-boats. They were being recalled to Bergen to await the end.
Lündstrom found himself analysing his emotional response to the news.
How do I feel?
The answer came surprisingly quickly and easily. Indescribable relief. Once he and his men had safely navigated their way back to the pens in Bergen, the war would effectively be over for them.
He finished his business, flushed the toilet and opened the door. Outside, the rating was still tautly awaiting an order.
‘Sigi, my lad, we’re going home.’
Chapter 19
Wallace
Chris sat at the same table in Lenny’s that he and Mark had used two nights ago. He checked the time; it was ten minutes to seven. He ordered a Bud to drink quickly before this Wallace chap arrived.
Just a little Dutch lubrication to ease things along.
Lenny’s was as dead this evening as it was the other night, more so. Only three solitary drinkers stared vacuously at the TV above the bar. Tonight it was basketball. He tried watching the game for a few minutes. It would be the inconspicuous thing to do, in here, with a cold beer in his hand, he thought. But every time the door to the bar swung open, he glanced anxiously towards it, half expecting to see the two men he’d seen at the quayside enter.
His nerves got the better of him, and before long Chris had to go and take a leak. He hurried back as quickly as he could after relieving himself and, as he settled down in his booth once more, he felt a light tap on his shoulder.
‘Chris, I presume?’
Chris jumped a little. He looked up to see a frail-looking old man standing beside his table. The man was short and the top of his back was rounded, forcing him to stoop slightly. He wore tan slacks that were hitched up too high on his waist and a red and black chequered shirt. On his head, perched awkwardly on thinning hair as white as the suds on a Bud, was a Yankees cap. A windcheater was draped over one of his fragile arms; in his other hand was a walking stick. Chris guessed he had to be in his eighties.
‘Mr Wallace?’
He nodded. ‘Trust me, I don’t normally dress like this. I was going for the tourist, weekend-hiker look. I’m not entirely sure I managed to get it right.’ He smiled awkwardly. The old man sounded like an asthmatic James Stewart, and his face reminded him a little of the old stand-up George Burns. It looked like a strong gust of wind could carry him away with little effort.
‘Have a seat. Can I get you a beer or something?’ he asked the old man.
Chris noticed Wallace cast an anxious glance around the diner before allowing himself to settle down, with some effort, onto the chair.
‘I’m afraid I need to steer away from the stuff . . . I’m on medication. A cup of milky coffee would be good.’
Chris caught the attention of the waitress and ordered another beer for himself and a coffee. He waited until she had gone before he decided to talk.
‘I’ve got to say, since you called me I’ve been a little bit jumpy. I hadn’t really thought this story had any big angle on it,’ said Chris.
Wallace nodded. ‘We must be cautious. I was around when . . . well, when these events happened.’
‘Can you tell me what exactly happened?’
‘Well,’ Wallace said, lowering his voice. ‘What do you know so far?’
‘Not a lot. There’s a B-17 down there, it was flown by a German air crew. I think it fought its way over Europe to get to America. I also know that the body of one of the crew drifted ashore near the end of the war, and its discovery triggered a huge search off the coast nearby for a few days. I presume they were looking for the bomber. That’s what I know. What I can speculate is that there was something or someone aboard the plane that the US government really wanted. How’s that for starters?’
Wallace nodded. ‘Very good - almost as much as I know. Tell me, have you been down to look at it yet?’
‘Yup. I’ve done two dives down there.’
‘How is she after all these years? How does the bomber look?’
‘Amazing. The whole plane is intact, very little corrosion, very little marine growth.’
The waitress returned with the order and placed the drinks on the table between the two men.
‘Can I get either of you folks somethin’ to eat? A Surf Grill? Steak and Fries? BBQ Ribs?’ Both of them shook their heads silently. ‘How about maybe a snack? We do Fish Burgers, Hotdogs, Filled Bagels.’
‘No. Thanks, honestly we’re not hungry,’ Chris answered abruptly, eager to send her away.
The waitress handed him an insincere smile. ‘Fine. Well just you shout if either of you gents change your minds.’ She turned and headed towards a couple of swing doors that led into the kitchen.
Chris watched her go, then looked back at Wallace. ‘Let me show you something.’
He produced a cardboard folder from his bag and placed it on the table. ‘Well, you see, I’ve made two dives on the plane, the second time was inside . . . I took a load of pictures.’
Wallace’s eyes immediately widened. ‘You have pictures of the inside of her?’
‘Yeah, sure . . . in here,’ he said, tapping the folder.
Wallace reached out a hand. Chris could see that it trembled slightly. He wondered whether that was attributable to old age, an illness . . . or maybe he was just as wired as Chris.
Chris quickly pulled the folder back from him.
‘May I see those pictures?’ Wallace asked eagerly.
‘Sure, but let’s slow down. I’ve got one or two hundred bloody questions I want to ask you first.’
‘Let me look at the pictures first, please?’ said Wallace. ‘It’ll almost certainly help me to answer those questions of yours.’
Wallace looked Chris firmly in the eye. In a face so pale and drawn, his eyes seemed to shine with a keen, intense, energy. ‘Trust me. You show me what you have in that folder, and I can tell you how that plane ended up down there.’
He was right of course. It all boiled down to trust. Quid pro quo, Wallace had said on the phone.
Chris opened the folder and pulled out a pack of black and white photographs. After a moment’s hesitation, he handed them over to Wallace.
The old man studied them intently, one after the other, his eyes widening with each new image.
‘My God,’ he whispered after a few minutes.
‘What is it?’
Wallace looked up at him. His jaw quivered with excitement or fear, Chris couldn’t tell which.
‘It was for real,’ the old man whispered.
‘What? What was for real?’ Chris asked.
Chapter 20
The Bunker
8.43 p.m., 13 April 1945, Berlin
The night sky pulsated like an erratic strobe light from the artillery bombardment; the flashes on the horizon threw the silhouetted remains of the buildings nearby into stark relief. Dr Hauser stood outside the staff car and took in his surroundings. A fresh breeze blew down Wilhelmstrasse, what was once a grand thoroughfare that linked the various buildings of government, the Air Ministry, the Gestapo Headquarters and the Reich Chancellery. It was accompanied by a moaning sound as the wind whipped in and around the empty shell of the Ch
ancellery. One storey up, a window frame, blown out and dangling from a cable, clattered noisily against the massive front façade of the building.
The rubble from the previous night’s devastation had been swept aside to allow at least one lane of traffic to pass down. But there were no other vehicles on the road tonight, just his staff car, with a driver anxious to tuck the vehicle away in the concrete vehicle bunker two streets away.
Hauser was horrified by the ruins around him. His last visit to Berlin had been six months ago. This place had been a city back then, these buildings intact, the road awash with streetlights and bustling with activity. That had been the occasion Albert Speer, the Armaments Minister, had green-lighted the project, appalled at the lack of progress and the wasted resources thrown at Heisenberg’s failed attempt. The proposal Hauser had submitted, quoted at a fraction of the cost, had promised so much more. It had been an easy decision for Speer to make.
Just six months ago.
Berlin is a dead city.
Hauser wondered why, when a place becomes nothing more than a few stacked bricks in a sea of dust, people continue to think of it as a city. Stalingrad had looked like this once, and yet those bastard, in-bred peasants had died in their thousands to keep hold of it. Perhaps the Russians were asking that question of the Germans now.
A Feldwebel of the Leibstandarte, Hitler’s personal SS bodyguard, approached him from the dark archway of the Chancellery.
‘Doctor Hauser?’
Hauser nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘Come this way please.’
Hauser looked at the gloomy entrance to the Chancellery building. In the moonlight it looked like a yawning mouth framed with decaying teeth.
‘Doctor . . . please, it’s dangerous to stand out here in the open.’ The soldier beckoned with a gloved hand. ‘Follow me, we can enter via the basement of the Reich Chancellery.’
‘He is really here?’ Hauser gestured at the ruined buildings around them.