(Story) The Italian Squadron

[DanBiddle]

Kapitänleutnant Max Hauser leant his back against the wooden bench and looked steadily around the packed table. The table was small, yet four men had packed around it, and all their plates and dishes too. A lamp hung directly overhead the table, the cord just long enough for the shade to swing precariously close to their faces as the boat rolled.

Hauser was the Commander of U-81, a Type VIIC U-boat, and he sat comfortably in his corner, listening to the steady clink of metal cutlery on dishes as the other officers finished their meals. This meal had been quiet, too quiet Hauser decided, and it didn’t take a genius to guess the reason. U-81 had received new orders yesterday morning. Donitz had ordered them to pass through the Strait of Gibraltar into the Mediterranean and join the new flotilla being assembled in Italy.

All the officers had been caught up in their own thoughts today, and Hauser had noticed them all subtly gauging their chances of success from their Commander’s mood. Young Ulrich was on watch now; it was his first cruise, yet even he had understood the perils of running the Gibraltar gauntlet. Hauser smiled as he remembered the boy’s wide eyes and pale expression as the news had rushed through the boat.

A heavy laugh came from forward, and all the officers could hear the loud voices in the seamen’s mess.

One voice said incredulously, “You still with that bloody woman? Jesus, Hans, she’s the ugliest bird I ever laid eyes on! You must have lost you’re brains!”

The second voice replied defensively, “What the hell! You don’t look at the bloody mantelpiece when you poke the fire, do you!”

Opposite Hauser, Oberleutnant Wilhelm Obst, his second-in-command, smiled and said, “Don’t change, do they?”

“I’m relying on it.” Hauser replied.

Obst had been with him since Hauser had assumed command of the submarine in April. Now it was October 1941, and a firm friendship had grown between the two men. As Hauser had found his feet as a U-boat Commander in the Battle of the Atlantic, Obst had stood by and kept the submarine running at maximum efficiency.

Hauser looked up as the table started to clear, Hermann Merkel, the Navigator heading into the control room to check the plot, and ensure U-81 was indeed heading for the south side of the narrow strait, and not the British naval base. Barring any unforeseen circumstances, they should be inside the Mediterranean in another twenty-four hours. In another two hours, it would be dark, and they would be approaching the largest concentration of British warships this side of the Clyde.

As the Chief headed off to see to his beloved engines, Obst looked across and looked questioningly at Hauser. “How are we to go about it, sir? You seem outrageously calm about it all.”

Hauser’s face split into a grin for the first time in days. “You know that’s a bloody lie, Willi! You can read me like a book.”

Obst looked away ruefully, the turned back and replied. “Well, yes, and you look troubled. And that’s why I’m asking you how we’re going to get through.”

“How do you think, Willi?”

“Well, there’s plenty of deep water, and a current to help us, so we’d have no problems floating through at minimum speed, with just enough power to maintain steerage way.” He looked straight at Hauser. “That’s how I would do it, sir. Silent, unseen; slip in through the back door.”

Hauser crossed his arms and smiled. “And that would be an excellent idea, Willi. However, tonight it will be very dark, with no moon, and Viktor our resident prophet has told me there will be fog tonight.” He frowned and continued. “Our masters in Kiel have told us it will be a clear night, which means old Viktor is almost certainly right. No, we’ll do it my way.”

Hauser smiled again. “Find a big juicy freighter going through fast, slip in behind him, right up his arse and run decks awash.” He paused and looked away. “We won’t be spotted visually by the fog, and a fast lone merchant is unlikely to be stopped by the patrols. Our engine emissions will be hidden by the racket of the freighter’s screws, and even in the Tommies have radar, we’ll be lost in the wave clutter tonight. Hopefully the freighter will be heading to the south of the channel, to keep us further from the patrols.”

Obst looked at him sceptically. “But surely the submerged way is safer, sir. I mean, going through Gibraltar on the surface is suicide!”

Hauser became serious again. “The men are stretched to the limit, Willi. This patrol has stretched their nerves further than ever before. The Tommies aren’t dumb anymore. Going through submerged would take much longer, reduce our battery power, keep the men on edge waiting for that dreaded ping. All it takes is one alert man on Asdic and we’re dead meat. With all the escorts they have over there, they could pin us down indefinitely.” He smiled again at the expression on Obst’s face. “Don’t worry, Willi! We’ll do alright. On the surface we’ll be through in five hours at the most, and have all the manoeuvrability we need to crash dive suddenly. They’ll see what they expect to see.”

Obst nodded slowly, and sighed to himself. “I suppose you’re right, sir.” He stood up. “I’ll go and check the plot again.”

In the control room, Merkel straightened his back and laid down the pencil. “That’s it! We’ll enter the Strait in forty minutes.”

Obst joined him at the table.

“Are you sure, Pilot?”

Merkel glared at him. “I’m not stupid, Willi!”

Obst grinned, “Oh, so it’s an act then, is it?”

Hauser chuckled to himself in the officers’ mess and checked his watch again. Merkel would be right, though, just as the sun would rise tomorrow. He saw his reflection in the mirror next to his bunk. Outwardly he looked relaxed from long practise, but not enough to fool the likes of Obst. He was nearly thirty, and he pulled absently at his ruffled brown hair as he thought about the last few months. The scales were slowly changing, and the Grey Wolves were being forced to try new tactics on each new approach. The Happy Times were definitely over, and the battle heating up despite the drop in temperature as November approached.

Although over six feet, his broad shoulders and slim athlete’s waist gave an impression of sturdiness rather than height. He had a strong face, the slight lines that framed his generous mouth, and dark unruly hair that curled from under his white cap, added to the picture a recklessness that offset the calmness in his blue eyes. In his current dress he looked very different from the typical naval officer, dressed as he was in old uniform trousers and a weathered fisherman’s sweater. In the close confines of a submarine, few bothered with the full uniform, as respect was earned, not given just because of the number of stripes you had on your sleeve.

Hauser walked through to the control room, checking the plot carefully before settling down in a corner as U-81 headed for Gibraltar, sensing the tension steadily building as they drew closer. He blocked the thoughts out as he concentrated on the passage ahead.

************************************************** *****************

“There, Herr Kaleun. Red two-zero, looks about 9000 tons.”

“Yes, she’ll do, Ulrich.”

Hauser scanned the area with his binoculars. They had been forced to wait until 8pm before a suitable ship had turned up, and the night air was decidedly cold. Visibility was very, low, and they could only just make out the freighter, yet she couldn’t be more than three hundred metres away at most.

U-81 was slipping through the water with decks awash, only the Conning Tower visible at all. Anyone on the freighter who happened to glance aft would be hard pressed to glimpse the slender tower motoring along in the disturbed water behind the ship, especially in the poor visibility.

“Ulrich, take a bearing on her stern. If it changes at all, sing out as soon as you can so that we can alter course or speed.” Hauser saw the young man nod nervously, and then turned his attention to the bulky, veiled shape in front of them. The submarine was moving along at a good twelve knots now, and the range between the two vessels was scarcely more than two hundred meters, yet they were quite safe from detection.

Moving to a voice-pipe, Hauser called down to Obst in the control room, checking that he had a good man on the hydrophones to monitor the revolutions of the big merchant and alert the officer as soon as they decreased.

Up on the bridge, Hauser and the young officer, Ulrich Toppmoller, together with the watch lookouts carefully scanned around the boat in the gloom. Hauser kept watching the freighter, checking its speed, bearing and estimated track. They were in luck – the freighter was definitely edging across to the southern side of the Strait, along the African shore.

Hauser looked across towards the north, and the British naval base. He tried to train his ears above the churning diesels, but decided there was little hope in picking an escort up by ear tonight.

“Clear the bridge, send Merkel up here.”

“Jawohl, Herr Kaleun!”

As he carefully watched the freighter through his glasses, Hauser was aware of the bridge crew moving off the bridge. Moments later he felt the navigator clambering up beside him.

“Bloody cold night, sir.”

Hauser nodded slowly, and took another careful glance around. He checked his watch again – they had been tracking the freighter for nearly an hour.

“At this speed, another couple of hours and we should be through the worst, eh Merkel?”

“Yes, sir. We’re well past Tangiers, and we should be passed the Rock in the next hour. Then it’s only a matter of hoping the mist will last long enough.”

Over the next hour, U-81 pounded onwards at twelve knots, relentlessly following the freighter through the narrow waterway. They must have passed some of the British patrols, and Hauser began to believe that their bold strategy would pay off. Despite the obvious presence of the British destroyers, it appeared that the German submarine’s radar return was hidden amongst the wave clutter.

Then, just as the U-boat drew level with Gibraltar, the peace was shattered by a sudden, searching, beam of light and the higher pitch whine of a motor torpedo boat sprinting in fast from abeam. As tracer shells ripper across the open bridge, Hauser lost no time in pushing Merkel down the ladder and following the burly navigator down, screwing tight the twin hatches as he went.

With so little of her conning tower above the waves to begin with, it took U-81 a scarce ten seconds to totally submerge and power down into to the gloomy depths of the Strait. Hauser jumped down into the control room, his sweater doused by spray from several near misses. He looked around the compartment, now bathed in blue light under ‘silent running’ conditions.

Looking over to Obst, Hauser grinned. “It had to be too good to ask for. That was only a PT boat, but you can be sure he’s bringing his larger friends along. Keep her silent, and take us down to 80 metres.”

“Jawohl, Herr Kaleun!”

Hauser now sat back in a corner of the room, his face impassive in an attempt to control the roller-coasting emotions of his crew. Their last patrol had been successful, with a haul of four freighters and a tanker. The convoy had been heavily escorted, and Hauser had been sure that at least three destroyers had been depth-charging them for periods in the fraught battle after the ships had exploded.

The submarine had suffered damage, some serious; their deck gun had been blown off by a particularly close explosion, and more seriously, the starboard propeller shaft now had a curious clanking noise which sadly destroyed most of their silent running efforts. The boat had been on patrol for nearly a month, and whilst the sun of Tuscany was alluring as November drew closer, the close confines of the naval accommodation was taking its toll on the crew.

Now, U-81 was sinking slowly into the depths of the Strait, and Obst controlled their descent carefully before levelling off at 80 metres. The blue light created an eerie effect, and reminded the men that they were being hunted. Everyone could hear the sound of the freighter slowly receding away in front of them, still steaming along at twelve knots. Directly overhead, or so it seemed, they could hear the higher pitched whirring of the PT boat engines as it circled above them.

Hauser shut his eyes and sighed deeply, trying to rid his body of the tension created by the suddenness of the British boat discovering them. He knew that his plan had been a little reckless, but as a famous British Admiral had once argued, ‘the boldest measures are often the safest’. Hauser leaned back slowly and found time to realise that they were lucky it had been a torpedo boat and not a destroyer that could have depth-charged them with little chance of missing.

He sat up sharply as a whispered voice called out, “Sound contacts, sir. From what I can make out, there are three destroyers approaching from the north at high speed.”

Hauser stood up and crossed the room. “Good work, Hans. Keep me updated.”

Within minutes the hull was filled with dreaded high pitched ping of Asdic, and the sandblasting that indicated a more passive method. Hans Stoecker, the hydrophone operator was experienced, and Hauser could accurately plot the positions of the destroyers from his reports, and also attempt to work out their tactics. At present, it seemed each destroyer was trying to ‘box’ Hauser in before launching an attack run. Hauser kept U-81 level at 80 metres and to a maximum of three knots to try and reduce the clanking of the starboard shaft as much as possible.

After a few more minutes, the balance of the battle changed. Hauser, nor the rest of the crew, had needed Stoecker to warn them of a changing bearing. The high pitched and distinctive whine of destroyer propellers filled the boat, and Hauser could see his crew reaching for handholds as the noise reached a climax. He shot a glance at Obst and their eyes met. Here we go again.

Six explosions shook the submarine severely, smashing light bulbs and dials, but otherwise causing only superficial damage. Hauser was relieved that the depth-charges had exploded far enough away not to cause any leaks. There was obviously a more serious problem with the lighting than smashed bulbs, and after five minutes things had started to calm down despite the blinding blackness.

Suddenly a voice called out, “Hey! Who pinched my arse?”

Hauser smiled to himself as he saw the crew exchanging grins. It was just what they had needed to break the oppressive tension, and Hauser knew that his crew would perform better when they were more relaxed.

Moments later, Stoecker detected another attack run, and presently all in the submarine could hear the destroyer approaching. This time the depth-charging was more accurate, and leaks developed on the more vulnerable flanges in the control room, and the U-boat itself was violently hurled up and down, causing men to fall as the deck plates jumped upwards. Curses indicated bruised shins, and whimpers revealed the mentality of the greener crew members. The worst damage was that the starboard shaft grew even louder as it was exposed to the depth-charge shockwaves. This posed the most serious problem to U-81, acting as a beacon for the destroyers to aim at.

Obst grabbed his attention. “Sir, the current flows into the Mediterranean, so couldn’t we stop the motors and drift for a while. We can balance the boat with crewmen to maintain depth.”

Obst’s words hammered into Hauser’s skull, and realisation dawned. “Willi, take her down to 150 metres, and then shut off the engines!”

Obst looked over quizzically, and Hauser beckoned him over. “Willi, the current is the cold Atlantic filling the Mediterranean due to the warmer water evaporating quicker. This means the cold water is mixing with the warmer Mediterranean water. If we go deeper, then we must cross a thermal layer at some point.”

Obst slowly grinned at Hauser, and then moved back across the control room to take the U-boat deeper. By crossing the layer, the British Asdic would be diminished, and even at slow speeds U-81 would be able to slip away undetected, or so Hauser hoped.

The boat slowly slipped deeper into the warmer Mediterranean water, and over the next five hours, the depth-charges slowly moved further away until finally they could be barely heard. As dawn approached, Hauser slowly conned the submarine up towards the surface, and a quick check around with the periscope revealed that the skies, as well as the seas were empty and devoid of life on the cold October morning.

U-81 surfaced suddenly in the still waters, and Hauser ran her at full speed eastwards to put as much distance between Gibraltar and themselves. Hauser finally left the bridge at noon to get some rest, safe in the knowledge that the boat was in Obst’s capable hands. With no unforeseen circumstances, U-81 would dock at La Spezia in a week’s time.



************************************************** ************

Hope you like it, and more updates to follow.

Cheers,

[danlisa]

Excellent as always.

That was a quick couple of days;)

[melnibonian]

That was great :up:

[TarJak]

To: U81
From: BDU

Keep up the good work!

Great stuff mate!:up:

[Jimbuna]

Now to sunnier climbs :up: Great stuff dan :rock:

[bookworm_020]

Nice to see a new story! Keep it up:up:

[Sgt Swanson]

Good job mate.:cool:

[DanBiddle]

Thanks for your replies guys. And many thanks to Danlisa who designed my lovely new sig :D

************************************************** ***************

The sun had barely risen over the silhouetted hills when the submarine surfaced in the calm, quiet seas. She was moving slowly, only the turbulent water in her wake displayed her movement, and despite being trimmed down, barely any water splashed onto her casing. The blackened and warped decks told their own story, and a casual observer would have been shocked by her appearance.

On her bridge, Hauser stared ahead of the U-boat, identifying the landmarks and steering the submarine up the Gulf towards safety. Next to him stood Merkel, the bulky navigator. The bridge was otherwise devoid of life, although below him seamen were emerging on the casing, preparing the boat for docking. Six days ago Hauser had successfully taken the submarine through the Strait of Gibraltar, and now, as U-81 edged further up the La Spezia Gulf, they were finally about to reach safety.

The steady clanking of the starboard shaft merely served as a reminder of how close it had been, how they had almost remained in the Strait forever. On the side of the conning tower there was a large rent where a cannon shell had scourged the plating, forcing the submarine to dive even as the dead lookouts were pulled below. It was a cruel justice really – it was the lookouts themselves who should have seen the Hurricane in the first place.

Slowly the harbour began to take shape, and Hauser could clearly see the tall hills on either side of them closing in, and up ahead the port rapidly materialising. A sharp order made Hauser turn his head, and he saw the crew lining up on the forward casing in their best white drill, then standing to attention.

Up ahead, he could see the Italian destroyers approaching to escort them into the U-boat pens. Donitz had chosen La Spezia because of its role as a major Italian naval base, and more importantly a submarine base, with ready-made U-boat pens. The hills and the natural gulf made it easier to defend the port as well, and Hauser could just make out carefully sited shore batteries and numerous anti-aircraft guns dotted around the port. For accurate bombing, enemy aircraft would have to fly straight up the narrow gulf, exposing them to a murderous barrage of shells and tracer. Despite this, Hauser could already see the familiar shape of a big concrete bunker ahead; almost exactly the same design as the pens in France.

The destroyers had formed up on either beam now, and one of them surged ahead to lead them through the harbour defences. Hauser merely watched as the U-boat was led through the narrow gap between the breakwaters and then ease up against the greasy piles in the sub-pen. On the dockside, a military band had assembled to welcome them to Italy.

“All secure aft, sir.”

Hauser turned his head as Obst climbed up onto the bridge. He too was wearing his best uniform, the gold buttons glinting brightly in the morning sunlight. He looked strangely alien in his jacket and best cap. For the last few weeks they had seen each other in almost anything but regulation dress.

Hauser had to smile at the contrast between the big, portly navigator and the small, lithe Obst. Despite being only just over five foot six, his hardened, athletic physique had gifted him a solid toughness. Short, fair hair crept from under his cap, and his grey eyes that assessed, calculated and took nothing for granted. His easy grin and keen wit took the edge off his toughness, and Hauser had become firm friends with the restless officer.

“Thank you, Willi. Ring off main engines.”

They saluted and Hauser turned to look down at the dockside again, where some hands were pulling a heavy gangplank into place. Another sharp command and the sailors lined up on the deck started to disperse and head below to gather their gear. The damage U-81 had received on the last patrol meant that the submarine would need to be repaired before commencing another patrol and Hauser was looking forward to a month or so of rest.

Hauser stepped down onto the deck casing, Obst and Merkel following him. The Chief would be telling the maintenance commander the necessary repairs that were needed, and Ulrich was required to stay onboard and assemble the men so that they could be paid and travel warrants handed out. He found himself standing in front of the base commander.

He was genuinely welcoming, his handshake hearty. Other faces moved around Hauser, a pat on the back, more handshakes.

The base commander said, “Good to see you, Hauser! You’re only the seventh boat to make it through, and we’re glad to have a man of your calibre in the theatre.” He looked past Hauser to Obst and Merkel. “Ah, excellent! I see you’ve brought your second-in-command. If I may have a few words with the two of you in my office, you can send your navigator back to the boat with these instructions.” He thrust a large booklet at Hauser, and noticing his confusion, added, “It’s just information about the Italian customs and rules. We don’t want any unnecessary conflict with them whilst we’re here.”

Hauser nodded, and handed the booklet to Merkel who seemed relieved to escape the scrutiny of the base commander. Hauser and Obst followed the commander out of the pens and into the main base building. Hauser was tired, and despite his clean shirt and best uniform he felt dirty and unkempt. The smells seemed to get right inside you and remained after patrol. Diesel and wet metal. Cabbage-water and sweat. He wasn’t too tired to notice the quick exchange of glances between the base commander and his secretary on the outer desk.

It was a large office, and despite being nearly November, brilliant rays of golden sunlight streamed through the windows off to the side of the desk. The commander sat down heavily, and carefully contemplated the two officers sitting opposite them.

“As I said earlier, you are only the seventh boat to make the passage through Gibraltar, and, like many others you are in need of repair. We’ve got three boats out on patrol at the moment, and another ready to go. The other two are in dry-dock.”

He looked away and pulled an official-looking envelope out from under the desk. He looked directly at Obst. “Oberleutnant Obst, you are to report directly to Kiel naval base in two days time. I am only at liberty to reveal that you are to be reassigned. These orders,” he raised his eyebrows, “have come directly from Admiral Donitz.” He shifted his gaze to Hauser. “Whether Oberleutnant Obst accepts his new duties or not, you will be receiving a new second-in-command. He will arrive here within the next few days.”

The commander stood up and walked across to the window, fiddling with the shutters absently. He spoke again, his back still turned. “Oberleutnant, you are dismissed. My secretary will hand you your travel warrant.”

As Obst left the room, the commander turned back to Hauser. “We are invited to a reception at the Governor’s residence tonight, Hauser, so see that you are rested and well dressed. German submariners are still a novelty here, so be prepared for it.”

He walked back over to the desk and sat down. “You’ll have three weeks leave after tonight, and then you are to report here again whilst we discuss your new duties. I’ll see you later on, Hauser. Good Day!”

************************************************** ***************

The reception that evening proved to be even more breathtaking and unnerving than Hauser had imagined it could be. He had entered through the large, double doors and stared up and around the great pillared hall and at the colourful mass of people that seemed to cover every inch of floor space and the handsome hanging balcony as well.

He took his time scrutinising the scene, as the Base Commander, Korvettenkapitän Franz Becker was exchanging words with another high-ranking official. The grey coats of the army were by far the majority, although the Luftwaffe were out in force, and amidst them were a few familiar blue coats of the sea-officers. Interspersed with the German military were the colourful gowns of the ladies and Italian dignitaries. Off to one side of the hall were several long tables stacked with delicacies, the contents of which made Hauser think he was dreaming after a long patrol.

Their nations were at war, yet the tables were groaning under the weight of food. Meats and huge portions of pie, tempting fruits and a glittering array of silver punch-bowls which were being refilled even as he watched.

Becker rejoined him and murmured, “Take a good look at them, Hauser. A man needs to know whom he is serving, as well as his cause!”

A footman greeted them as they walked further into the room, and after a cursory glance at the assembled guests he addressed them in a voice that could probably have been heard in the harbour. “Korvettenkapitän Franz Becker, KC, Kapitänleutnant Hauser, IC.”

Not that it mattered. There was no break in the tide of laughter or conversation, and hardly anyone turned to examine the newcomers. Becker moved them nimbly through the fringe of the crowd, nodding to a face here, pausing to pat a sleeve or bow to a lady there. It was impossible to imagine him in his role this morning, the Base Commander. Hauser had forgotten that Becker had served in the Embassy in New York between the wars, and was quite the social animal.

Hauser followed the slight figure through the hall until they reached a table at the far end of the hall. Beyond it and the perspiring footmen another doorway opened out onto a great lawn, where he could see a fountain shining in the reflected glow of numerous lights. A few couples were walked outside, and Hauser looked away as a Luftwaffe Major guffawed loudly.

“Well?” Becker waited until they both had a glass of wine in their hands. “What do you make of them all?”

Hauser turned to study the press of figures by the tables, hearing the strings of an orchestra somewhere as they played throughout the chatter. How anyone could find room to dance in here was a mystery to Hauser.

“It’s like a fairyland, sir.”

Becker regarded him with amusement. “Fools’ paradise is a better description!”

Hauser tasted the wine. Like the glass, it was perfect. He relaxed slightly. The question had put him on guard, but Becker’s comment had shown that he had no intention of testing him.

Becker continued, “Here, you can find proof for the argument that there are always two armies in war.”

Hauser watched him, momentarily forgetting the noise and bustle around him. As he had suspected since this morning, Becker’s social graces hid a razor-sharp mind. A brain which could sift and examine each challenge and problem, and discard everything that was superfluous. The wine was very strong, and the heat of the hall helped to break Hauser’s caution.

“Two armies, sir?”

Becker signalled for more glasses. “Drink your fill. You’ll not find wine like this elsewhere.” He looked carefully at Hauser, studying his features slowly. “Yes, we have the military that daily face the enemy, search out his weakness or try to contain his attacks. Soldiers who live on their feet, know nothing of clean beds or good food. Rommel’s Afrika Korps for example, or like yourselves in the Atlantic.”

“And the others?”

Becker grimaced, and gestured vaguely around the hall. “Behind every great army there is an organisation. The military government, the secretariat, and the traders who live off the fighting like leeches. God alone knows how this war will end. We are fighting on too many fronts, over too vast a span of the world to hope for victory. The Brits in Africa and the Soviets in Russia. If we’re not careful we’ll have the Americans joining in too.”

He placed his hand on Hauser’s shoulder and continued. “To me, duty stands before all else. I would shoot anyone who acted otherwise. But these…” he did not hide his contempt, “these leeches deserve no loyalty. If we must fight a war, we should also ensure they have no gain from our sacrifice!”

Then he smiled, the sudden relaxing of the lines around his eyes and mouth altering him yet again.

“There, Hauser, you have learned the next lesson, eh? First you command respect, then a ship. Next you achieve control of more and larger vessels. That is the way of ambition, without which no officer is worth anything to me.”

He yawned. “Now I must be off.” He held up one hand. “But you remain and continue your education.”

“Will you not stay to meet the Governor, sir?”

Becker smiled cheerfully. “Nobody will meet him tonight. He merely holds these affairs to pay off old debts and to keep his hand in.” He beckoned to a footman. “So enjoy yourself. You have earned it, although I daresay you’d wish it rather Berlin, eh?”

Hauser grinned. “Not Berlin, sir.”

“Ah, of course. A son of the sea. I forgot.” Then with a nod he moved through the door to merge quickly with the deep shadows on the lawn.

Hauser found an empty corner at the end of the table and tried to decide what to eat. He had to have something, for the wind was doing its work well, and he felt unusually light-headed.

“Kapitänleutnant Hauser, correct?”

Hauser turned sharply at the sound of the girl’s voice. He stared at the girl for several seconds, taking in her appearance. She was dressed in a beautiful, low-cut purple gown, and her dark hair, which hung in ringlets over her bare shoulders, shone beneath the chandeliers like silk.

“You will know me if we meet again,” she paused, “Max, isn’t it?”

He nodded. “Sorry, I was staring.”

“I think we can forgive you for that!” She smiled at him and ushered him towards the centre of the room. “You may call be Maria.” She watched him closely, and finding no recognition in his eyes continued. “The Governor’s daughter.”

Hauser looked at her again. “I thought you were familiar.”

She turned to face him again. “So, Max, what do you think of Italy?”

At that moment a passing general knocked her into him, and Hauser felt her body close against his, her warmth, and smelt her perfume. It was perfect, just like her appearance. They broke away.

“I think I’m going to like Italy very much,” he smiled unsteadily, “Er...Maria.”

She patted his arm again. “I see you’ve found out how strong our wine is. Come! Let us go outside for a moment.”

As they walked unsteadily across the lawn, Hauser noted that the girl was taking him away from the main building and across the grounds to a smaller, single story one. She opened the door and switch on the light and Hauser looked approvingly at the vehicle in front of him.

It was a Mercedes SSK, a 1929 model. The glassy black paintwork and gleaming silver exhaust vents on the sides of the long bonnet showed the true calibre of the car. It had been known in its time as ‘the Mighty Mercedes’ and even ‘the fastest sports car in the world’. Hauser didn’t want to contemplate how Maria’s father had managed to get his hands on one.

“You like it then, Max?”

“Absolutely!”

She opened the wider doors at the far end and climbed into the driver’s seat. Hauser jumped in next to her as the 7.1 litre engine rumbled into life. The engine growled as the car bounded forward along the straight estate road, the headlights cutting through the darkness like twin white swords. The estate gates were flung wide open hurriedly, and the girl laughed wildly, her hair rippling in the wind.

The tyres screeched in protest as the car turned onto the winding hill road, loose gravel rattling up under the wings. Trees, boulders and small huts flashed in the headlights, distorted into frightening shapes and were swallowed up behind them.

Hauser’s body stiffened as the luminous dial of the speedometer quivering at eighty and slowly rising. The estate had been at the top of the hill overlooking the harbour, and now they were diving down the other side of the hills. He pressed his cap more firmly onto his head. Bloody Italian drivers, he breathed silently.

Maria pressed her foot down harder, regardless of her dress which had blown halfway up her lap. As a wheel grated across a hump in the road, she groped for one of his hands, and breathing hard pressed it down against the smooth skin of her thigh. It lay there, warm and strong, but unmoving as she twisted her head to see his face.

It was at that very second that Hauser saw the small figure standing transfixed in the swinging headlights.

“For Christ’s sake!” He screamed. “Look out!” He scrabbled vainly for the handbrake in the darkness, dimly aware of the rising scrape of the brakes and the sliding, rolling motion of the car. There was a sickening jolt as the front wheels left the road, and a thousand clutching branches scratched and crackled against the metal sides. Then there was silence but for the distance barking of a dog and the patter of falling leaves across the bonnet. The headlamps still blazed, throwing their glare against the trunk of a gnarled tree in which the twisted bumper bar was embedded.

Hauser looked at her and saw her slumped against the wheel, moaning into her hands, her shoulders hunched. She lifted her face and stared at him, her eyes running with tears. Her lipstick was smudged, and the wide mouth hung open almost vacantly, emitting low, strangled sobs. Then she pushed her fingers through her hair, working her jaw and sucking in great gulps of air.

Hauser left the car and stumbled through the undergrowth towards the road. He found the child lying next to the road, and he picked her up gently. The child lay limply in his arms, her tattered clothing ripped away from the shoulders, revealing a series of cruel, ragged gashes which gleamed angrily in the headlights. For a moment he thought she must be dead, but he saw that the two bright eyes, which seemed to fill her whole face, were fixed desperately on his, the small, emaciated mouth twisted into a mask of pain. He moved back to the car.

“Can we get her to a doctor? It’s her only chance!”

Without waiting for a reply, he wrenched open the driver’s door and shoved her unceremoniously out of place.

“What are you doing? What’s happened?” Her voice suggested hysteria, but his whole concentration made him force any consideration for her from his thoughts.

The car responded jerkily to his exertions, and with a rattle of loose metal, he gunned the engine and reversed back onto the roadway. As the great lamps swung across the road, he got a brief glimpse of long, black skid marks and the pathetic pool of blood by the roadside. He muttered in a comforting manner, and it seemed to soothe the child.

As Hauser jammed the unfamiliar gears into position and the car began to move ahead, Maria stared from the child to Hauser in amazement, and without warning, began to sob again into her arms. A high moan escaped her lips, “Oh God! What’ll Father say about his precious car?”

“Shut up for God’s sake! Is that all you care about? Don’t you realise you might have killed the poor little thing?” Hauser kept his voice down, and the hissing words were all the more menacing.

“Don’t talk to me like that, you…you ugly Kraut!” She wriggled in her seat, as if consumed by anger and indignation.

“Where’s the doctor’s place?” Hauser spoke between his clenched jaws, fighting the sickness that threatened to engulf him.

“If you think I’m going down there, looking like this! What’s got into you?”

Hauser followed the curve of the road as it dipped down towards a small village. “Must get there quickly. If anything happens to the child…” he left his words unfinished.

“If you must make a fool of yourself! Turn right here and follow the track.” She tried to move closer to him, her voice suddenly pleading. “We could have left the kid at one of those houses. They’re used to this kind of thing. The kids are always dying off, here!”

He eased her free with his arm, his face like stone. “I’m not surprised,” he murmured quietly.

She straightened up in the seat, pulling her dress over her knees and trying to fix the gaping front of it. Her tone was hostile, yet ashamed. “I didn’t mean it to be like this!”

“No. I don’t suppose you did.”

“You have to leave the road now. There’s only a pathway.”

Even as she spoke he saw a building through the trees, its high whitewashed walls reflecting the moonlight. A crude red cross was daubed on the roof. He braked as gently as he could, and got out, picked the child up as he stood up.

“I… I’ll stop here,” Maria called after him, “I’ll wait, if you like?”

“No, don’t wait. Come in if you like.”

He heard her clash the gears. “I can’t stand the sight of that traitor!” She was shouting now, “And you’re drunk!” Her other words were drowned in the roar as she let in the clutch. Hauser was already hurrying towards the house.

He reached the house and saw that it overlooked the valley, backing onto the same hills that faced the sea. It was quite a large building, and must have once been a perfect sight. He banged on the door, conscious of the child’s sharp breathing. The door opened and a small man appeared, dressed in a typical Italian garb.

“The doctor, is he in?”

The man held the door wide and Hauser followed him into a small waiting room, deserted now, but painted in warm hues. There was a smell of disinfectant and sweat which made Hauser’s stomach twist uncontrollably. The man hung the lantern on a wall and held out his arms commandingly.

“Please! The child! I take to Doctor!” He gathered the limp body with surprising ease, and pushed open a side door with his foot. A shaft of light flung his shadow weirdly across the floor, and he regarded Hauser dispassionately. “You wait here, if you want!” The door swung shut behind him.

Hauser sang down into a chair, only now realising that the man had spoken to him in English. He was grateful that he had stayed in England for a few years before the war, enough to speak and understand the language fluently. His hands moved ineffectually over the stains in his uniform.

He stood up and paced the room like a caged animal, his mind racing. The pain in his head could hardly be endured, yet he could think with a fresh clearness and a bitter understanding. If only the sickness in his stomach would go. Then perhaps he could at least act like a human being. He shook his head, trying to shake off the nausea. It was more than that, though. It was the sickness of real despair which held him so remorselessly.

He glanced at his watch unseeingly, having long lost all sense of time. I can’t stand this, he thought wildly. Must go and find out what’s happening in there, and then get away. In his mind, the picture of his barracks room wavered like a glimpse of heaven.

Hauser gripped the door handle and softly eased his way into the other room. For a moment he blinked to accustom his eyes to the glare of a paraffin lamp, which was being held over a white sheeted table by the little servant. Hauser held his breath, watching the bending figure of a man who was making final adjustments to the bandaging of the child’s chest and shoulders. Pieces of stained cotton-wool lay on the bare wooden floor, and the child’s torn clothing had been tossed hastily onto one of the scrubbed chairs. Under the lamplight she looked frail, and only her eyes showed the flickering life of childhood.

He watched the doctor’s long hands working with swift, practised ease, and noted the dark, untidy lock of hair falling across his face, which was turned away from him. He could only make out the firm, sun-tanned cheek and well cut chin. He was surprisingly young, a few years shy of thirty, he thought. The man stood up wearily and stretched his shoulders.

The servant stared woodenly at the child, and smiled gravely. “Nice job, Doctor Felton.” He pointed with his chin in Hauser’s direction. “That man’s here now, Doctor.”

“What the devil!” Felton swung round angrily, and Hauser shrank back in horror, as the remaining half of the doctor’s face became visible under the harsh light.

The whole of the left side had been savagely scorched away from the eyebrow to the chin. It was as if a sheet of greaseproof paper had been stretched across a loose tangle of raw flesh. Above the smooth nightmare of crude surgery, the left eye squinted in horrible concentration, and the whole effect made Hauser retch helplessly, a cold sweat breaking across his brow.

“Well, well, Paulo! So the gallant U-boat Captain is honouring us with a visit!” The tone, though soft, was filled with scorn. It was spoken in English too. “Have you come to see the results of your handiwork? Or did you want to look at me?” The dreadful eye gleamed like a chip of glass.

Hauser pressed his palms back on the wall, digging his nails into the rough plaster. “Sorry, Doctor, I didn’t realise. I mean, I just wanted to find out how she was!” It sounded empty and stupid, and the bile in his throat threatened to choke him. The face floated in a mist before him, and he knew that if he left the safety of the wall, he would fall.

“She’s alright as it happens,” the answer was like a slap in the face. “No doubt you enjoyed your party with the Governor!”

Hauser’s legs quivered, and helplessly he sat down on a carved camphor-wood chest. “Please excuse me,” he choked, “I’m afraid I’m making a bit of a fool of myself!”

One half of Felton’s lip curled contemptuously, the other half, a red slit, remained still and dead. “We’re very sorry about that, I’m sure!”

The child made a small noise, and immediately Felton bent over her. With her eyes like dark pools, she reached up weakly, and explored the man’s face with her small fingers. Hauser felt a lump rising, and a sharp pain behind his eyes. The complete lack of fear or pain in the little creature’s expression filled him with awe and a sudden humility. It was more like a wild dream than ever. All the things that were happening around him tore at his heart in a way unknown to real life.

Without leaving the table, Felton spoke over his shoulder, his calm voice trembling with anger, “Well, aren’t you going? Haven’t you done enough?”

“I wasn’t driving. It was an accident.” How ineffectual it sounded. “We got her here as fast as we could!”

“We? So there are more of you, eh? The Governor’s daughter, I suppose! Well, this isn’t her first victim by any means. Not that you care, of course!”

Hauser dropped his head in his hands, not caring what they thought. Nothing they said could be too bad, and he felt the resistance draining away from him.

He heard a door open, and a new voice, a soft, gentle sound, penetrated between the protection of his clasped hands.

“I’ve sent someone for her father, Brian, and I…” there was a pause, and a quick intake of breath. “What’s happened now? I saw the car drive off. Now who’s this?”

Hauser raised his head slowly, the figure of a girl forming mistily before him. Dressed in a long, rough white overall, the girl looked at first glance like a child. Hauser stared incredulously at the dark cloud of rich chestnut hair, swept hurriedly back into a loose knot at the nape of her slim neck, and the perfect sun-tanned, oval face, seemingly dominated by wide, hazel eyes. Her soft, moist mouth was parted, giving her an expression of surprise and alarm. Even as he stared, she nervously lifted her small hands to her hair, her smile fading.

“It’s the new U-boat Captain.” Felton spoke as if Hauser was not in the room. “He and his friends have just bought the child here as you know. What you don’t know is that he’s actually sorry about the accident!” He turned lightly to Hauser and again the face glared angrily in its distorted mask. “As if one child is anything to worry about with the millions your kind has killed in the concentration camps.”

The words split through Hauser like a knife, the agony of that terrible day all coming back to him. “We’re not all Nazis,” he murmured brokenly.

“Get out for God’s sake! You and your kind make me sick! Keep away from me while you’re here, and be damned to you!”

Hauser staggered to the door, his eyes burning.

The girl’s face was all at once hovering beneath him. “Are you alright, Captain?” Her eyes were filled with concern, which made Hauser feel even more desperate. It was too much. First that ghastly mask, and now this soft, beautiful face, which was perfection and loveliness undreamed of.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Felton,” he muttered, groping for the door. Behind him he heard Felton laugh sarcastically. “I beg you to excuse me. I must get back to my ship!”

With unbelieving eyes he watched her hand on his sleeve.

“Are you sure you’re going to be able to manage?”

He nodded helplessly, and as the cool air fanned his face, he found himself in the roadway. She stood uncertainly watching him, her teeth white in the moonlight. “I’m not Mrs. Felton, by the way,” she said softly, “I’m his sister.”

He reached out for her hand, which he seized eagerly. “Tell your brother I’m sorry,” he faltered, “He thinks that I…” his voice died away.

“Don’t mind him. He’ll understand.” She disengaged her hand, and Hauser stood staring at the closed door.

As he walked back up the road, the gravel scrunching under his feet, the silence helped him appreciate the magnitude of his loneliness, and the realisation of his recent behaviour filling him with scathing contempt. As he walked away up the hill, Doctor Felton’s sister was rarely absent from his thoughts.

[Jimbuna]

Wonderful reading (as always) :up: :rock:

[DanBiddle]

Thanks Jimbuna! Such kind words :D

Now on to the next installment...did I mention the words 'Cloak and Dagger' to anyone... :p

Cheers,

Dan

[DanBiddle]

Sorry for the delay, but here's the next one! By the way, see if you can spot the Rommel quote :p

************************************************** ***************

Hauser stood uncertainly in front of the door, his hand poised to knock, but yet again he hesitated. His thoughts strayed back to the night before, the horrific images that were lodged in his mind. Now the sun was shining, the golden rays warming the slopes as labourers went about their daily work. The crisp air announced the approaching winter, yet Hauser had found it refreshing, and an absolute necessity as he had walked from the naval base back up the hill.

The cool air had aided his recovery, soothed his headache and allowed him to reflect on the events of the night before. He could barely remember any of it as he had awoken in the unfamiliar barracks room, his faced marked after being pressed into his arm for most of the night. The hammers in his head hadn’t been make believe either, and groaning he had made his way over to the small sink in the corner. The clanking pipes and ice cold water had done little except to make him feel thoroughly uncomfortable.

As he had donned his uniform, one different to the night before, he tried to remember what had happened, and slowly the events came back to him. The mad drive in the Governor’s exquisite Mercedes, then the twin beams of light resting on the child, and the agony of the time in Doctor Felton’s small surgery.

They were both British that much was true, but Hauser had no idea why they were staying in Italy, living as neighbours to their country’s enemies. He remembered Felton’s absolute loathing of what Hauser represented, what he stood for.

As he walked up the hill he saw the surroundings in daylight for the first time. The hills stretched right around the small town, their green slopes looking delightful next to the flashing water as it was bathed in morning sunlight. By the side of the small road he watched farm labourers working with zeal, and cheerfully waving at him as he walked past. Hauser had smiled back at them, yet wondering if they were only smiling because of the uniform, and the Nazi eagle on the right breast.

The he had rounded a corner and seen the black tyre marks in the road, the pool of dried blood and the black flecks of paint embedded into the deep gash in the tree. Hauser had taken a deep breath and walked swiftly on at a faster pace until he had reached the pathway through the trees.

Suddenly reaching a decision he knocked once then stood back, smoothing his uniform down. He waited for a few moments before the door opened suddenly. It wasn’t the small servant, Paulo, who opened the door this time, but the girl, Felton’s sister. Hauser smiled ruefully at her sudden surprise, and then she seemed to gather herself and invited him in.

The waiting room was totally different by daylight, the orange walls giving a homely feel, and the large windows at the far end faced south, allowing the morning sunlight to stream through. He turned and saw she was watching him. He removed his white cap and placed it under his arm.

He began hesitantly, thankful that his English was good enough that he didn’t need to think of the translation, but merely try to put his thoughts into words. “Look, er…Miss Felton, I really am sorry about last night,” he had to look away. He couldn’t face her as the memories returned. “I was drunk; she must have been as well.” He looked back at her, “And now that poor child lies injured…”

He stopped as she rested her hand on his arm. “Don’t do this to yourself, Captain. It was an accident.” She pulled him into the same small surgery, and his gaze was instantly fixed on the small, blanketed body at the far end of the room. Paulo was crouching next to her, and Hauser moved slowly over to the child, aware that the girl was following him.

He gazed down at the child, her features relaxed in sleep, her hands clutching at the blankets. He winced slightly as his eyes saw the red blotches beneath her bandages.

“She’s going to be fine, Captain. I…” She stopped suddenly as her brother entered the room. He saw Hauser and immediately his manner became guarded, his tone cold.

“What the bloody hell are you doing here! I thought, hoped, we’d seen the last of you last night!” He seemed oblivious to the girl’s hissed ‘Brian!’ and continued, his voice low so as not to disturb the child. “Get out, and actually listen to me when I say we don’t want to see you again!”

Hauser glanced once more at the child, and walked swiftly across the room, aware of his boots clipping noisily over the wooden floor. He had his hand on the front door handle when her voice made him stop.

“Wait, Captain. He’s just angry, that’s all.”

Hauser turned and looked at her. “He’s a right to be. I’d hate me if I was him.”

“Let me walk you back up the hill, Captain. You need to talk about it.”

Hauser looked away, his tone low. “I don’t want to cause you any trouble with your brother.”

“Oh damn him! He just doesn’t trust people easily.” She walked forward quickly, pulling him out of the door behind her. “Come on.”

They walked in silence through the trees, Hauser very aware of her small, graceful figure barely disguised by the newly pressed dress, and her slim, sun-browned legs that were no longer hidden by the apron made blood rush to his head, so that he didn’t trust himself to speak.

As they emerged onto the road he made an attempt at conversation. “Miss Felton…”

“Please, it’s Rachel.”

“Max.”

They stopped and stared at each other, then laughed at the absurdity of it, the tension broken. As they started walking again, she looked at him from the corner of her eye. “Your English is very good, Max. Where did you learn?”

“I was in England for a few years before the war. I was a young officer attached to the Embassy in London.” He smiled as he remembered the years before the war. “Little more than a tea-boy to be perfectly honest!”

She smiled at him again, then a different expression appeared on her face, and she turned away. “Must have been a bit dicey when the balloon went up, eh? Take a good dekko?”

She laughed suddenly at Hauser’s confusion. “Relax! I’m teasing you, Max!”

He smiled ruefully and scratched his head. “I was wondering what language you were speaking for a moment.” A comfortable silence descended before Hauser continued. “What about you, Rachel? Why are you living here, in Italy as Europe is engulfed by war?”

Her smile faded. “We moved here a few years before the war. He had been studying Medicine, and I was still in school. That was before the fire,” she faltered. “My mother had died a few years before, and we were living with our father. A fire had broken out during the night, and Brian had pulled me out of the flames. He was badly burnt, and my father died in the fire.”

Hauser pulled her close, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “I’m sorry, Rachel.” he murmured.

She didn’t appear to hear him, but didn’t shrug out of the embrace either. “Brian was in hospital for nearly a year, and had basically been told that he would never hold down a position because of the way he looked! It was terribly cruel! It made him very bitter!”

Hauser nodded understandingly, seeing only too clearly how a man like Felton, with his forthright views, and embittered mind, would react to such a handling.

She continued, “But what about you, Max? There is more to you than meets the eye. I saw your expression when Brian called you a Nazi.”

Hauser was silent for a moment, before hesitantly relating his story. “Yes. I am a German, Rachel, I can’t deny that and won’t deny that, but I am not a Nazi!” His reply had been so vehement that Rachel had looked up at him in alarm.

“Of course I must pretend that I support the party, pretend to fight for what it stands for. I joined the service because of a sense of tradition, and duty to my country. My family has always been in the Navy, and my grandfather had commanded a battleship at Jutland, and my father died commanding a submarine in that war.” His voice dropped to just above a murmur as he continued. “My sister was taken away by the Gestapo. Apparently she had insulted her superior officer in operations after he had made a move on her. He was also the local Party officer.” Hauser’s tone became bitter. “We’ve never heard from her since. It doesn’t take a genius to work out where she went, or what became of her.”

She had a hand clapped to her mouth, and muttered brokenly. “God, that’s terrible! I’m so sorry, Max.”

They walked on in comfortable silence, Hauser very aware of how close she was, and what her perfume was doing to him. They had reached the top of the hill, and suddenly Rachel grasped his hand. Her touch was soft, and Hauser looked down at her in surprise.

She was looking at him with a strange expression. “I think I am beginning to understand now. Thank you for sharing it, Max, and visit sometime. I’ll make sure Brian understands.” Then, to Hauser’s surprise, she leaned up and kissed him on the cheek before walking swiftly down the hill.

If there had been an onlooker, they would have seen Hauser touch his cheek and stare back down the hill before shaking his head. They would also have noticed a slight spring in his step as he made his way back to the naval base.

************************************************** *****************

If Wilhelm Obst harboured any doubt as to the urgency of his secret appointment he was soon made to think otherwise. With first light little more than a grey blur over Kiel he was driven in a staff car to the airfield a few miles away.

Once strapped aboard a noisy and apparently unheated transport plane, he turned up the collar of his greatcoat and considered the experiences of the previous day. It had begun with his meeting with Admiral Donitz, and nothing in the world could have prepared him for the news the man had given him. The meeting had lasted just over an hour, yet to Obst it had felt like it was far shorter.

Donitz had taken his time to develop the conversation, first asking Obst about his current service in submarines, and then, strangely, asking in detail about his recreational swimming and diving before the war. As Obst had described his love for the sport, the old admiral had started nodding his head slowly. Obst knew that he would remember the rest of their meeting with perfect clarity for the rest of his life.

Donitz had sat up in his chair, and clasped his hands on the desk in front of him.

“Oberleutnant Obst, you service in the Kriegsmarine has been extremely satisfactory. A man of your seniority and experience would be looking to command their own U-boat now, and indeed that is what I am offering you.” Seeing Obst about to reply, Donitz had held up his hand. “However, I have another proposition for you, a position that is entirely voluntary, and I cannot force you to accept.
“You may, or may not have heard of a specialist battalion operating in the Wehrmacht named the Brandenburg Battalion. They consist of specialist soldiers who operate behind enemy lines, disrupting supply chains and causing chaos. At present they are operating in Africa with the Afrika Korps. They are often captured after an operation as we have no way to resupply them. Now that our U-boats are being stationed in Italy that may soon change.”

Obst remembered Donitz standing up and pacing across the room, his hands clasped behind him. “The reason you are here, Oberleutnant, is to join a new company of specialist officers and sailors, a new Kriegsmarine force. The Wehrmacht is pushed too hard to be expected to set the unit up, and God forbid we ever use Luftwaffe personnel in anything important.” He stopped suddenly and looked directly at Obst. “Oberleutnant, the Italians have a force very similar to the one we are trying to set up. It is called the Decima Flottiglia MAS, and is essentially a commando frogmen unit. If you accept, you will lead a squad, and receive training in Norway.”

Obst huddled deeper into the cold seat, staring out of the plane window at the thick layer of cloud below them. He had accepted immediately, and was now being flown north towards the fjord where they would train.

The flight north to Holm in Norway was a bumpy one. The November skies were thick with cloud, and the aircraft definitely sounded as if it had seen better days. Occasionally, Obst caught glimpses of hills and rain-washed roads beneath the clouds. The Mediterranean was drawing further away, and not just in distance. Obst caught sight of several frigid fjords and longed for the sun-soaked Med.

The field turned out to be little more than a strip of tarmac surrounded by mud and a couple of Nissen huts. Obst wondered if they would have survived the landing if dusk had drawn in, and even in daylight the approach and landing had seemed more like a controlled crash to him.

A few reluctant oil-skinned figures emerged from the huts and made their way over to the plane, hunched in the rain. As Obst’s luggage was offloaded, a burly lieutenant came up to the plane.

“Oberleutnant Obst, sir?” He looked at Obst from head to toe, and seeing the officer nod, continued. “Come this way, sir. A short boat ride out to the depot ship. That’s where we’re all being berthed at the moment, you see.”

Obst followed the youthful lieutenant across the field to a small pier behind the huts. Lying next to the pier was a dory with a small wheelhouse attached. Gathering his greatcoat around him, Obst climbed down into the small vessel and jammed his cap harder onto his head. Holm was over a hundred miles south of the Arctic Circle, but even in November you could have been forgiven for thinking that it was.

The engine jumped into life with a jolting cough, and soon the dory was moving out into the fjord, the sailor huddled over the wheel. The lieutenant moved closer and spoke again. “Won’t be long now, sir. About twenty minutes out to the depot ship – she’s lying out in the fjord. We laid the buoys especially for her, and the fjord was chosen for its privacy.”

He didn’t speak again until they rounded a bend in the fjord and a small grey ship was outlined against the high, steep sides of the fjord.

“There, sir. The Hans Wenniger.”

As the dory drew closer, Obst took the time to carefully scrutinize the ship. She was moored to two large buoys fore and aft, and positioned behind a steep bluff, ensuring she would be reasonably sheltered in all but the worst winds. Her high grey sides reminded him of a troopship, but the stern was far lower, a platform placed almost at water-level that marked the ship out as a specialist design.

The dory eased up to the platform and a sailor climbed down to carry his baggage up. There was another lieutenant standing on the platform, his smart uniform at odds with his wind-ruffled hair. As Obst climbed onto the platform, he thrust out his hand. “Oberleutnant Obst, correct?” As Obst nodded, he continued. “The Commander will see you now. Please come this way.”

Obst followed the officer across the platform and through a steel door. The passageways were all painted in navy grey. It was clear the Hans Wenniger had been designed as a naval vessel from the outset – the bare passageways and harsh lighting reminding Obst that the vessel had not been designed with comfort in mind.

The lieutenant had stopped outside another grey door, and turned to face Obst. “Kapitän Theil will see you now, sir.”

The captain’s office was below the main bridge superstructure, it was very large and ran the whole width of the superstructure. Unlike the barren corridors Obst had just walked through, the inner office was panelled, and held an air of shabby opulence.

Kapitän Jurgen Theil stood with his back to a steam radiator, eyes fixed on the door as Obst entered. He wasn’t particularly tall, but broad-chested and full-bellied, so that he appeard to be leaning back to counterack the weight. His hair was turning grey, and his close cropped moustache was at odds with the rest of his image.

He waited until Obst had crossed the room before thrusting out one large hand. “Good to have you, Obst.” His voice was thick and resonant, his grip strong, and Obst noticed that his eyes were sharp and alert. He gestured to a chair before making his way around to the other side of the desk. He crossed over to a cabinet and picked up a decanter and glasses.

The captain offered him a glass.

“Nice drop of port.” His eyes fixed on Obst’s. “I gather you enjoy it,” he added dryly.

Obst sipped it slowly. He managed to hide his confusion, yet marveled at the man sitting before him who had somehow managed to find out Obst’s favorite drink before even meeting him. Any attempt to explain why he happened to enjoy a typically British drink would be useless.

Instead he said, “I understand that we are to be engaged in commando…”

Theil interrupted him calmly, “All in good time. Drink your drink and relax. I know a lot about you. Now I want you to know a bit about me.” He settled back in the big chair. “I admire professionals. Always have. And you’ve done very well to achieve your record in submarines. Should have had a command of your own even. I was good myself once, but I could no more take a submarine into action now than understand these bloody Italians. And it doesn’t follow that you’re any use for what I want!”

Obst sat up in the chair with a jerk.

Theil held up one of his massive hands. “Keep calm. I speak my mind. And as I’m far senior to you, I can speak mine first, right?”

A grin spread very slowly across his battered features. Like sunlight on an old ruin, Obst thought vaguely.

But he found himself smiling. “Right, sir.”

“Good. This job is being kept very quiet. It has to be. Hence me. Hence you.” He reached for the decanter. “You’ve been a long time in submarines, you know the picture in the Atlantic, know the warfare. You’d be a good commander, too, and you had a great man to learn from. Max Hauser, wasn’t it?”

Obst nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Damned good submariner. I served as second-in-command in his father’s boat, and I knew no better commander, nor any better friend. But he was bloody well lost as well!” Obst jumped as Theil’s fist slammed down onto the table. “What I’m trying to explain to you, Obst, is that no matter how good a submariner you are, that still won’t stop a depthcharge from blowing you to Kingdom Come. And undoubtedly you would be a good commander, but here we have something far more worthwhile, more effective!”

Obst glanced at the Ritterkruez at Theil’s neck. It wasn’t hard to imagine him in his own boat.

Theil asked sharply, “Do you know what the Decima Flottiglia MAS is?”

Obst started. “Yes, sir. The Italian commando frogman unit. They act as divers or pilots for human torpedoes. They mainly operate from the Italian submarines.”

“Good lad. You know their function as well as I do. Unfortunately, our dear Führer would prefer that Germans undertake these commando operations, which is the main reason you are here. We are attempting to set up a small company of naval officers and men to be drafted in from normal duties, which is why you are here, Obst.”

His face split into a wry grin. “The Italians make good troops, but poor officers. But don’t forget that they also set up the basis of modern civilization. We have a few of their officers here to help train you and the others into worthwhile frogmen and then we will become operational. The only problem appears to be the fact the Italian’s german is bloody awful!”

He stood up, pulling Obst with him. He pointed out of the window across the fjord. “We are training up here for two reasons. Mainly to keep the Brits from finding out what we’re up to and secondly to get you used to the frightfully cold water so that you can operate anywhere. You’ll be in command of a small unit of four men mostly, but that may depend on operations. Get settled, Obst, you’ll be up sharp tomorrow to commence training.”

[Tom Meyer]

Good reading Dan.

Sent you an email a little bit ago, hope to hear back from you. :)

[Cap.Palla]

Nice story Dan :up:

[danlisa]

WooHoo, Still going strong. :D :rock:

[DanBiddle]

Thanks ever so much for your comments guys! I guess no-one picked out the Rommel quote hidden in the dialogue then :p

Cheers,

Dan

[Trygvasson]

"The Italians make good troops, but poor officers."