The Last Wolf (25 page)

‘No. There's nobody else,' she'd told him. ‘Nobody.'

Hamish was signalling to the waiter now.

She said, ‘Hamish, about Craigmore . . .'

‘We'll talk about that another time. No need to make any decisions yet. Let's have another drink.'

On the sixth of June, the Allies landed in Normandy but the German forces fought back ferociously and, in the same month, their rumoured secret weapon fell on England. A pilotless plane, launched like a rocket from France – the V1, a flying bomb, a buzz bomb, a doodlebug. Whatever the name, an endless procession of them came over, day and night. When their fuel ran out, the engine stopped and they crashed to earth and exploded. Stroma saw one go over when she was at home on leave – a small, dark shape with a fiery tail, its engine spluttering like a faulty motor bike. The engine cut out a few streets away and, after a sinister silence, there was a deafening roar, a flash and a great plume of black smoke.

By the end of June, the port of Cherbourg had been taken by the Americans. In July the British finally entered the town of Caen and towards the end of August Paris was liberated. Fifty-four U-boats had been sunk by the enemy during the first three months of the year. The total number lost was now more than four hundred. Fewer than a hundred U-boats were left.

But the war was not over yet. Yet another new German weapon had been unleashed on England. The V2 rocket was faster and more destructive than the old buzz bombs. It made no sound and gave no warning, no chance.

In the officers' mess at Lorient, Gerhard Metzler was doing his imitation of Winston Churchill, sporting a top hat that he'd fished out of the North Atlantic and frequently wore instead of his white commander's cap. He puffed on a cigar and slurred his English words, made V signs the wrong way round. It helped that he was drunk himself, Reinhard thought, amused. They all were. Drunk on wine and brandy and schnapps in order to blot out, for a few hours, the unpleasant reality of their situation. Most of them were going to die, and probably very soon. The odds were stacked high against survival. One in five boats never returned from patrol.

He watched Metzler switch from Churchill, to Field Marshall Goering, swaggering around and swishing about with his swagger stick, then another switch to the Führer himself, standing on a chair, wild-eyed and dishevelled, ranting and raving, one arm extended in the Nazi salute.

Metzler's clowning had got him into trouble with authority more than once – saved only by the intervention of the Grossadmiral himself. Coming into the base, on return from a long patrol, Metzler had called out from the bridge to the dignitaries assembled on the quayside.

‘Are those damned Nazis still in power?'

On hearing the affirmative, he'd ordered ‘Full astern' and the boat had backed away rapidly from the quay. There had been plenty of laughter all round, but Metzler had been sent for and given a serious dressing-down.

He finished the Führer sketch with a stiff-armed salute, went back to his place at the table beside Reinhard and picked up his glass again.

‘Well, my friend, how long do you think before we have to slink out of Lorient, with our tails between our legs?'

‘About a week. Not longer.'

‘That's my reckoning, too. Brest will soon be lost to the Yanks. Our turn next. A pity. I'll be sorry to say
adieu
to France. It's been a pleasure. Especially the women. I hope to God we're not banished to Norway with all those ice-cold maidens.'

Metzler slouched down in his chair and twirled the stem of his glass, slopping its contents over the rim. ‘Of course, we're dead men anyway. So, we don't really need to worry ourselves about such minor things any more, do we?'

‘Not too much.'

‘How old are you, Reinhard?'

‘Twenty-five.'

‘I'm twenty-seven. An older Old Man. But not quite ready to die. Not yet. Not yet.'

Within three days the U-boats in Lorient were ordered to sail from their pens, leaving behind two boats too badly damaged to move. No bands, no crowds, no waves or cheers, and certainly no tears. No Yvettes, or Solanges or Lulus to wave a sodden handkerchief; they'd be getting ready to welcome the Yanks and the Tommies. Instead, a sullen group of French dockhands had gathered on the quayside and spat into the inner harbour water as they passed by. Their departure would be no secret. The French had long ago scented liberation and every one of them would be eager to spy for the Allies.

They followed their minesweeper escort down the channel to the open Atlantic and headed out to sea. Metzler's boat drew alongside and its commander doffed his top hat before he turned away. Reinhard replied with a salute.

The English Channel had to be given a wide berth since the Allies' invasion – it was far too well guarded and thickly mined. The U-boats who had been sent on suicidal missions to stop the enemy fleet had almost all been lost. Even equipped with the Schnorchel to allow them to stay below the surface, the constant parade of enemy destroyers and escorts crossing and re-crossing the Channel gave little chance of getting near any of their troop ships, and U-boats who had been sent into the fray early on had almost all been destroyed. Instead, Reinhard was ordered to patrol north-west of Ireland. It was no longer possible to form into the wolf packs of old; now they hunted alone.

The sea had moderated after some grey and stormy days. The sun came out and the U-boat cut through the swell, her bow rising with a glittering shower of spray before sinking back into the dark green water. They lay in wait off the Irish coast before sighting a convoy approaching from the west, masts emerging gradually above the horizon. At least fifty ships, but heavily escorted. All Reinhard could hope was that the enemy might have grown a little slack with so much success, that they might find it hard to credit that a single U-boat, a lone wolf, would have the balls to attack them in the face of such odds.

He waited for darkness before circling astern of the convoy, picking on a large steamer who had fallen a little behind the rest.

‘Stand by to attack.'

His Chief Engineer kept the boat trimmed at periscope depth – not easy in a strong swell. In the control tower, Reinhard crouched at the lens of the attack periscope. The tubes had been flooded, the bow doors open, the settings for speed, course and depth adjusted. Now Reinhard could see the whole ship, even bigger than he'd hoped. He ordered a slight change of course.

‘Stand by tube one.
Achtung! Los!
'

The bell shrilled and the torpedo left its tube with a hiss of compressed air.

‘Torpedo running,' the hydrophone operator reported.

In the control room, vents had been opened to flood the trimming tank in the bow, compensating for the torpedo's weight.

They waited in silence.

‘Torpedo still running.'

‘Up periscope.'

The torpedo was streaking towards its target, its propeller bearings and those of the steamer's about to converge and then, at the very last moment, they crossed. They'd missed.
Verdamnt! Verdamnt!

Reinhard looked round at the disappointed faces. ‘Better luck next time. We'll try again tonight.'

Under cover of darkness, they slunk after an oil tanker cocooned in the centre of the box convoy. Forget the miss; this one was worth twenty steamers. Very large and very modern, her cargo could be as much as sixteen thousand tons of crude oil. Reinhard played a patient game of dodge with the escorts, the U-boat's presence conveniently masked by the thrashing propellers of the convoy ships. He bided his time, lurking at periscope depth, watching the tanker, waiting for exactly the right moment.

He sank her with two torpedoes – aimed so precisely that this time there would be no mistake. She erupted in a towering pyre of orange flames and black smoke before sliding backwards, stern first, bows last, down into the darkness of the ocean.

Naturally, the escorts came after them: destroyers bearing down with murderous intent. They had dived to sixty metres when the first depth charge explosions began and a stream of water bursting into the bow compartment sent the U-boat nose-down to the bottom where she stuck. The bilge pumps could not be used for fear of giving away their position to the enemy; all that could be done was to disperse the water, bucketful by bucketful, evenly round the bilges to try to restore the trim. More thunderous explosions, more leaks – spurting as from a sieve. The lights went out, glass shattered, ducts and pipes split open. The bombardment went on for the rest of that night, for the following day and the U-boat bumped and groaned on the sea bed.

The air was thick and foul, only breathable in quick, shallow gasps, and the emergency lighting useless in the murk. Reinhard ordered those men not working to their bunks, to put on nose-clips and breathe through the tubes attached to potash cartridges which absorbed the carbon monoxide. Where there was no bunk space, the rest huddled on the bare steel plates, some of them in inches of water. He and Engelhardt leaned on the chart chest.

Every half hour or so, with his Number One following, Reinhard went round each compartment with a pocket torch, picking his way carefully over men, giving a word of encouragement here, a clasp on a shoulder there, checking that the rubber breathing nozzles had not slipped from mouths. A very young rating had fallen sound asleep in his hammock, his mouthpiece lying on his chest. Reinhard shook his arm gently and replaced the tube – like restoring a dummy to a child. An Old Man was a father to his crew, after all. He knew every one of them by name, knew where they came from in Germany and about their families. They were all good men. At least half had earned the U-boat badge and the Iron Cross, second class.

Another destroyer thrashed past overhead. Another load of bombs tore the ocean apart, hammered the boat mercilessly. New leaks in the hull; fresh damage. The enemy were taking it in turns. It would be hours before there would be any chance of surfacing. If they ever could.

In spite of the barrage, though, the boat was somehow taking it. So far the hull had held out instead of collapsing like a crushed sardine tin. Perhaps they were lying in a kindly fold of the sea bed? Perhaps they were just plain lucky?

By the next night, the destroyers finally gave up and the sound of their propellers gradually faded away. Inside the boat it was dark and dank and silent as a tomb. Reinhard let several more hours pass. There was always the possibility of an enemy ship still waiting quietly for them to surface – the cat watching the mousehole. The bilge pump was put to work and soon after midnight he gave the order to blow all tanks. The U-boat shuddered, shook herself and rose slowly off the bottom.

Cold air rushed into the boat as the conning tower hatch was flung open to a black and starless night. With no sign of any enemy warships, Reinhard let the men take turns to go up on to the bridge and breathe their fill.

Engelhardt took off his cap and wiped his brow. ‘We were lucky, sir. For a while, I didn't think we were going to make it, did you?'

He smiled as he lied. ‘I never doubted it for a moment, Number One.'

Leaks were plugged, the magnetic compass restored to working order, cracked gauges mended, dials readjusted, all possible internal damage repaired. Orders had been received to sail to Bergen, Norway and so the U-boat limped on her way.

They celebrated Christmas Eve at sea. The engine room rigged up a Christmas tree made out of branches and pine needles of wood and coloured paper with cotton wool for snow and pocket-torch bulbs sheathed in white paper for candles. The cook produced a feast of ham and potatoes and sauerkraut, followed by tinned strawberries and tinned cream whipped up into mountain peaks, and a sponge Christmas cake made from still-fresh eggs and covered with icing. Reinhard poured a glass of brandy for each man.
Prost! Prost! Prost! Frohe Weihnachten! Frohes Fest!
By God, they deserved it!

On the American Forces station, Judy Garland was singing ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas', which made a nice change from ‘Stille Nacht'.

A coastguard vessel guided them through the tricky fjord waterways and into the port of Bergen where a handful of men watched their arrival on the quayside in silence. From their awed expressions, it was clear that they had been drawn by the unaccustomed and rare sight of a U-boat returning safely from a patrol.

The Commanding Officer appeared and came on board to offer his congratulations. The sinking of the large oil tanker had already been noted and Reinhard was awarded Oak Leaves to his Knight's Cross and promoted immediately to the rank of Korvettenkapitän.

The boat entered the shelter of the concrete bunker where the rest of the repair and maintenance work would be carried out, and where she would be re-painted, refuelled, re-armed and re-provisioned for the next patrol. Meanwhile, by way of celebration of still being alive, they were invited to cocktails and dinner. If the immaculately groomed Commanding Officer was dismayed by their appearance – their dirty hair, matted beards, grey-green faces and hollow cheeks – he was too polite to comment. Instead, he made a rousing speech promising that better times were to come and that soon they would have the very newest type of U-boats – bigger and better and more powerful than ever before. They would be able to cut off the enemy's continental supplies and stop him in his tracks. The men listened equally politely, and went on drinking.

Snow lay several feet thick on the ground, but the officers' accommodation was well-heated and pleasant enough. There was even a real Christmas tree in the mess, with real lights. It reminded Reinhard of past Christmases in Hamburg when his mother had still been alive. St Nikolaus, carols, presents, a big feast . . . It was all so long, long ago.

A party was arranged, with drink and food, music and some obliging and buxom Norwegian girls to dance with.

Bergen was an interesting old city, built on a fjord and surrounded by hills. Narrow cobbled streets, wooden houses, trams, old wharves, cod fishing boats. In spite of the snow and the cold, Reinhard wandered around like a tourist in peace time. The Royal Air Force had made some visits to the harbour, of course, but as usual the concrete U-boat bunkers had stood the test of even their heaviest bombs. Otherwise, the war didn't seem to have made much impact. He remembered hearing the curious story of how the country's capital had been taken – not by a crushing military attack, but more by bluff. A mere three thousand German troops had landed in Oslo and their military band and two accordions had begun a series of jolly concerts and sing-songs in the main streets, including the English ‘Roll Out the Barrel', while the German soldiers paraded up and down, singing as they marched and watched by crowds of mesmerized Norwegian citizens.