Rivetting stuff http://www.psionguild.org/forums/ima...ies/pirate.gif

My train was, of course, "in ritardo". It was not just a sign of Mussolini's waning influence on the Italian work ethic. The conductor said the tracks had to be checked again for possible sabotage by the Resistance. Maybe it was only an excuse to go for a smoke. I passed the time in my train carriage reading letters from my parents.

My mother, bless her, was a paragon of consistency. Whether she intended it or not, her letters always took me back home, with news about our family and those sweet moments in everyday life that make all the difference, if one pays attention.

My father's letters were a very different sort of communication. In the days of the Republic, when I became old enough to vote, we had many heated political discussions at home. He was an outspoken constitutional monarchist, opposed to both Communism and Nazism. I recalled his words vividly, after we had witnessed a bloody street-fight between the Reds and the Brownshirts:

"If only these blockheads would wipe each other out and leave the rest of us alone! Gott help us if this rabble ever takes power! They'll be the death of us all!"

We voted in '32 and '33, not that it made any difference. By then the only parties that mattered were the Nazis, the Communists, and the Social Democrats. After that, my father became bitter and taciturn. Privately he talked about emigrating to Holland, but he never followed through. As it turned out, Holland would not have been distant enough anyway.

Father still had to blow off steam discreetly with those he trusted; in his letters, he employed what he called "Schattensprache", oblique language that could not be used as evidence against him. But if you knew the man well, his inflections would add a layer of meaning. His last letter contained a good example:

"You should have heard the wailing in the neighborhood when Munich beat the invincible Schalke, 2-0. You'd have thought the poor Schweine had lost everything they owned! But all winning streaks must come to an end, eh?

"The bombers came exactly one week later. No doubt my firm was on their target list. Their aim was lousy, but they managed to hit something anyway. Hence our new address. It's a small flat, with noisy neighbors, and my commute is longer, but we're alive and well. Just a bump in the road to the Thousand-Year Reich!

"Sorry our menu's rather limited these days, and there's only the couch for you. If you don't feel like staying long, we won't be offended, really. We'll keep the home fires burning. In the fireplace, I mean!"

Mein Gott.

I spotted Heinrich on the platform. Before he could board an adjoining carriage, I called out to him. He climbed in, threw his bag onto the rack next to mine, and plopped down in the seat opposite. He looked tired but well-dressed in fresh civvies. Except for the beard, he could've passed for one of the locals.

"Going straight to Dessau?" I asked.

"Lake Lugano first," he said. "A few days of real peace and quiet, then I'll go home."

"Good idea. I'm going to Milano first... Shopping for gifts."

He nodded. "I'm giving my wife a velvet scarf. She loves everything Italian."

"So, how did Zürn treat you? Did he give you grief about the boat?"

"Zürn thinks I'm a miracle-worker," he replied, almost embarrassed. "He wants me to teach at Gotenhafen next year."

"What?! Did you accept??"

"I told him I had to discuss it with you first."

"Ach, it was hard enough letting Rolf go!"

"That's the only reason Frauenheim didn't ask for me this time. But after the next patrol--"

"Verdammt! You're the best engineer in the flotilla, Heinrich! You can't leave!"

He sighed. "Frauenheim can take half your crew if you don't give him what he wants. And, to be honest, Peter... I couldn't turn down a teaching post. You know what will happen here when the Allies set up airbases in North Africa."

I was speechless. My world was coming apart at the seams. Why pretend otherwise?

"Ja... I'm ready to go, too," I said at last. "But it'll be harder for me. I made some blunders earlier in my career, and I'm still paying for them. Now I'll need something really big to put me over the top."

"Big? Like what, an aircraft carrier?"

"Could be that, or something else." I couldn't tell him about Oberst Brandt's invitation. But a top-secret mission... Surely someone up there would be impressed. "Let's just get our boat back in the water. One more patrol, eh? We'll make it one for the history books."

Heinrich just looked at me in silence. The doors slammed shut; the steam whistle blew. We felt a lurch as the train pulled out of the station.

"One for the history books," he said, weighing the odds. "Mamma Mia..."

Heinrich busied himself by opening and reading his mail, mostly Weihnachtskarten. Every so often he would glance at me. It was the same look he gave the diesels whenever they sounded slightly off. This time, though, he couldn't give me a damage report.

He showed me one greeting card and said, "From my parents."

"How are they?" I asked.

"They're doing well." He had more to say, but it took an effort. More so because he was trying to hide the effort. While staring at the card, he found the words.

"When I joined up, I used to worry about my father as much as he worried about me," said Heinrich. "He was in the Great War."

"Was he wounded?"

"He caught some shrapnel, but that wasn't the worst of it. After the war... those were really hard times."

"For all of us," I said. "I remember when the money became almost worthless. I was too young then to understand why, but even so..."

He nodded and sighed. "My father was out of work for a long time... It drove him mad. For a while I was afraid he'd kill us all."

Heinrich gave me that look again, just for a second. He opened another card, gave it a quick read, then tossed it on the seat next to him.

"One day my father tried to shoot himself," he said, breathing harder. "My brother and I had to tackle him and wrestle the gun away. It was horrible... horrible."

"He could've done it when no one was around," I said. "Maybe he wanted you to stop him."

"Ja, I thought of that, too. But Mensch, he really scared us."

"Is he better now?" I asked.

"Much better. Eventually he got a job in a machine shop and worked his way up. Now he builds fuel injectors for Junkers."

"Glad to hear it." I didn't have to ask how his father had voted.

"He says he owes his life to Hitler... Things did improve for a while."

"Naja, they promised change."

Heinrich gazed out the window. "And we sure got it. Junge-Junge..."

I thought about Oberst Brandt and the arrangement we'd had. He had screened my crew to ensure there were no Party members among us. However, that did not rule out indirect Nazi connections. C'est la vie.

At Milano Centrale I bade arrivederci to Heinrich; he went to catch his train to Switzerland and disappeared into the rush-hour throng. Under cloudy skies I crossed the bustling Piazza Duca d'Aosta and checked into the Albergo Gallia, an Art Nouveau grand hotel.

The room they gave me must have been the one reserved for Abwehr VIPs; though I'd been in a few posh hotels before, I was stunned. The marble bathroom alone was bigger than U-77's Zentrale and had stained-glass windows. I didn't mind the luxury one bit, and it was oddly comforting to be an anonymous stranger again, gazing out at other strangers as they walked home or rode the orange trams that rattled by.

Lying in the huge bed, I thought about her again... Veronika. That wasn't her real name, of course, but I preferred it over her Abwehr codename. It had been over two years since that night when I ferried her from Cadiz to Tangier on U-53. Since then, no one, not even Eva, had made such a profound impression on me. It was not just Veronika's beauty -- it was the awareness in her eyes. She saw what was going on, far more than I did then. Where was she now? Brandt would never tell me. Security reasons. I didn't know if she had feelings for me, if she thought of me at all. But I had no doubt she would have liked this room... this bed.

The next day I appeared at the offices of "Liedtke Srl" in one of the side streets off Via Luigi Galvani. In contrast to Roma, the nexus of political power, Milano was where the money lived. All business, like Frankfurt. Brandt's luscious secretary ushered me into his office, where he greeted me like a faithful old client. He still wore wire-rimmed glasses, but since our last meeting in Paris, his waistline had expanded somewhat. His gray suit, now Italian, was tailored to compensate. In response to my traditional salute, he gave his usual dismissive Heil Taxi.

Sitting down, I took in the stylish office decor -- nothing about it indicated this company's real purpose. Brandt observed me with his thin smile. "Like it?" he asked.

"Import-Export. Perfect cover," I replied. "What kind of merchandise?"

"Shoes, mainly. I must say the Italians are brilliant at this sort of thing. No moving parts!" he cackled. That laugh, and the glint in his eyes, unsettled me. Despite Brandt's prestigious education and career, there was another side to him. It was the money, I thought. How much could a man in his position siphon out of the country with no one the wiser? He noticed me eyeing the bottle of clear liquor in the cabinet behind him.

"It's a little early for grappa, or I'd offer you some," he said.

I grimaced. "You actually drink that stuff? I'd use it for cleaning battery terminals!"

"Ach, ja, it is an 'acquired taste'. Keeps me from drinking too much!"

"Any news about the Med?" As usual, he greeted my question with a sardonic grin.

"The good news, you already know. The whole truth might demoralize you."

"Call me a glutton for punishment."

He s******ed. "Masochism is in the psychological profile for U-boatmen."

"Just a little strategic analysis, Herr Oberst. It wouldn't hurt to know."

"Ullmann, your problem is that you think too much. Your life would be easier if you could just leave politics to the politicians, and strategy to those with egg on their hats."

"We're losing, aren't we?"

"Don't you believe in the great secret weapons the Führer promised us?"

"We need more than weapons, Herr Oberst. In the long run it all comes down to logistics."

Brandt paused, took a breath, then gave me his "insider" look. "Do you have a Swiss bank account yet?" I shook my head.

He continued, "There are branches in Lugano, just two hours away. You don't even need an appointment. Just bring your cash. Presto, finito."

Presto, Finito. That could have been our flotilla's motto.

"You wanted to see me about a mission, Herr Oberst?"

"Ach, the mission... This time I'm just the Mittelsmann," he said, taking a packet from his desk drawer.

I interrupted him. "You do know that U-77's in drydock till early March?"

"Of course I know that," he snapped. "If we require a U-boat before then, we'll find another one. You have a rendezvous tomorrow. That's all I've been told." Clearly he resented being left out of the loop.

He placed the documents from the packet before me, one by one. "New identity papers. Train tickets. A map of Lago di Como." Then a thick envelope. "Cash, for new clothes and expenses."

"What's wrong with what I have on?" My civvies were clean and well-fitting, as far as I was concerned.

Brandt shook his head. "You'll need to look like a rich Italian. Buy off the rack, though, not tailor-made. Carry a suitcase, not a duffle. And shave the beard."

Then, a thin sealed envelope. "This contains your sign and countersign. Open it now and memorize it."

He got up and looked out his window. I opened the envelope and read the lines. They were in Italian.

"Memorized?"

"Jawohl."

"Eat the paper."

I suspected Brandt enjoyed making people do this. At least the paper was very thin, probably designed to be eaten.

"Finished?"

"Mm-hmm..."

He returned to his desk. "You're booked at the Villa d'Este in Cernobbio under the name Heinz Oster. Take your meals only in the Villa's restaurant. Your contact will find you. Send me your receipts afterward. Alles klar?"

I asked, "Is there any chance that my performance on this, whatever it is -- could it help my career at all?"

"You want to get away from the front," said Brandt. "I understand. But consider that you might not be very useful to us commanding a desk. Of course, you could bring it up with your contact." He let out a cynical laugh.

:har:

I made my way downtown to the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II, Milano's "Temple to the God of Shopping", as Brandt put it. He wasn't exaggerating. It was even grander in scale than the Galeries Lafayette in Paris. I stood in the very center, at the intersection of the double arcade, and stared up at the gigantic glass dome. Perfect splendour. Ja, klar, no matter what that blowhard Mussolini claimed, the Roman Empire wasn't coming back. But the Italians still knew how to do some things better than anyone.

Whilst trying on various outfits at a posh men's boutique, I reflected on my peculiar relationship with the Abwehr. It couldn't be called blackmail, not in any explicit sense. No question, though, they had the leverage. And if incriminating evidence could be made to disappear, could it not also reappear, should I ever cease to be useful? For the most part, the Abwehr operated silently, invisibly, like a thermal layer shielding my father and me from the Gestapo and SD. Of course, one couldn't make a lot of racket, even with such "protection".

This was no way to live. One day I would either have to surface -- or suffocate.

I settled on a blue Zegna double-breasted suit of ultrafine wool which, according to the salesman, had been soaked in the water of the Italian Alps for extra softness. This was without question my biggest sartorial transformation since the day I first put on a Kriegsmarine uniform. Now I knew why my original appearance had raised eyebrows; I must have looked like a fisherman who had wandered into the wrong store. But in my new suit, combined with the sleek Ferragamo shoes supplied by Oberst Brandt, I could've passed for a prince.

What sort of prince? With the beard, Machiavelli's, definitely. Too bad I'd have to shave it.

The dapper salesman tried to talk me into a lilac and silver ascot, but I had to draw the line somewhere. Instead I selected two silk neckties, one foulard and one striped, to go with my two shirts. As the salesman measured me for alterations, I became convinced that he was the sort of man Il Duce would not have approved of. Not that he did anything improper. But the effort of acting masculine every day must have worn him out. His true nature had to emerge, in his meticulous way of touching the fabric, plucking stray threads; the lilt in his voice; his eyes, which twinkled like a girl's.

Then he realized I was looking. He smiled nervously. Abject fear. I knew the feeling well. There was nothing I could say, of course. Silent running. He then finished measuring and pinning my trouser hems as if neither of us had noticed anything.

A disturbing thought occurred to me: I had not seen a man like him anywhere in Germany for years. No one asked where they all went.

I wondered about this poor fellow. Maybe he had a "thermal layer" protecting him, too -- perhaps some local bigwig who attended Mass every Sunday with his family. Pretending, always pretending. Every ship of state sailed on a river of hypocrisy. Was it not always so?

With a hint of desperation in his voice, the salesman promised me the alterations would be done in two hours. Enough time to shave, check out of my hotel and have lunch. Molto bene.

On my way out of the Galleria, I stopped at a tiny shop specializing in coffee equipment. There I found a pair of second-hand Bialetti moka pots -- the same type Kptlt. Becker had used for our breakfast just before his death. Vito, the stocky, balding proprietor, explained that due to the wartime restriction on the use of aluminium, Bialetti pots were rare and highly prized. I bought both; one for my father, the other for myself.

But to find fresh, high quality coffee -- that would be the hard part. "Oh, Signore, we used to get great coffee from Ethiopia," said Vito wistfully. "But since the war with Britain, allorrraa..." He turned his palms upward in that universal gesture of exasperation. As usual, you had to know the right people.

Later that afternoon, properly clad in my new suit and overcoat, I boarded a northbound train at Milano Centrale. From this point on, if anyone asked, I was Heinz Oster, en route to Como on business. For the silk trade, certo. In my first-class carriage I was safe from the jealous stares of less fortunate civilians. To blend in better, I read the Corriere della Sera.

If one took the news at face value, one might think that victory was just around the corner. For the Axis, that is. As with German propaganda, the smart reader had to make adjustments for the inaccuracies; for ex., the reverse of the friendly/enemy loss figures was often closer to the truth. In Tunisia, of course the German-Italian Panzer Army was "smashing" the Allies and "driving them into the sea". On any given day, that might even have been true. But the logistics... somehow they always left that part out.

Likewise, at the Don River northwest of Stalingrad, the Italian 8th Army was "valiantly holding the line". Naturally, what else would they be doing? Having seen Italian armor, I felt sorry for those poor Schweine facing the Red Army. In the snow. The crude map showing the order of battle told me more than the vague, optimistic fluff of the article. I wanted to believe we were winning, especially against the Communists. They said the Russians had been "fought to a standstill". But where was the actual front line?

The stories closer to home were more indicative of our true situation, if only indirectly. Napoli, the key supply port for our North African forces, had been bombed heavily by B-24s. The Amis weren't wasting time. Good thing we didn't take U77 there after all.

There was at least one triumph that could be reported in detail: our recent takeover of Vichy France! The Italians generously gave us credit for seizing the port of Toulon. Alas, the treacherous French scuttled their fleet. Over a week later, three of their cruisers were still on fire. The Italians would get most of the scrap metal, but the fuel in those ships would have been more useful -- the Regia Marina was nearly immobile for lack of fuel. Allora, logistics again.

Glancing at the stolid faces around me, I imagined it was only a matter of time. Someday they'll turn on us, too. With all their colonial gains slipping away, how much more could they take? If they switched sides, it would put us in an awkward spot, to say the least!

I wondered what the Abwehr had in mind for me. With all this expensive cloak & dagger, it had to be something bigger than, say, taking saboteurs to Algeria. I had heard idle fantasies of rescuing our captured U-boat aces in Canada, but surely they weren't that crazy! And why me, of all people? Unless they wanted someone expendable. I could see Brandt saying, "Jawohl, I know just the man."

Perhaps there was a contingency plan to smuggle Mussolini out of Italy in case he couldn't trust his own people. I almost laughed out loud. After all the things we'd said about him on our boat! That would be too ironic! And where could we take the ex-Duce for a comfortable life in exile? Maybe Franco could give him a villa on Majorca.

I got off the train at Stazione Como San Giovanni. From there it was an easy walk down to the marina, where I caught a ferryboat named Volta, one of the venerable paddle-wheel steamers that plied the Lario. Despite the chilly weather, the lake was breathtaking, with the snow-capped Pre-Alps to the north -- no wonder it had been a summer retreat for Roman emperors. Things changed very slowly here. The splendid villas dotting the hillsides looked as if they dated back to the Renaissance.

Soon I alighted in Cernobbio and walked to the Villa d'Este, which stood at the lake's edge, surrounded by an enormous garden. The word "Villa" hardly conveyed its actual grandeur -- "Palazzo" would have been more fitting. Unlike my hotel in Milano, which catered mainly to traveling businessmen, the Villa d'Este was meant for the "owning class" -- the sort of people I rarely saw except at a distance. Here my suit and accessories were just adequate, so that no one would question my presence or mistake me for one of the staff.

Upon seeing my suite, lavishly decorated with sumptuous fabrics, antique furniture and paintings, with a balcony overlooking the lake, I felt out of place. No one I knew, even among my superiors who had endured and accomplished much more than I had, would expect to find himself here. The people who stayed here were always untouched by war. They owned the country. They probably owned Mussolini as well.

I gazed out at the placid blue lake and pondered. What if the Abwehr intend to lure me from the Kriegsmarine to become a full-time secret agent? The notion staggered me.

But what if it were true? I might live longer. Perhaps long enough to meet Veronika again.

yay keep writing :D

Grazie mille, timmy41 -- but I think this is where I should take a break for now. I need to devote my time to the "professional" writing that might become my livelihood one day. However, there is a connection between the two...

As you may have guessed, I have big plans for Kptlt. Ullmann. My girlfriend and I are both screenwriters, and she is also an independent film producer. My Peter Ullmann series posted here ("Der Spanier", "Breakfast At Lampedusa", and "Close Call") has inspired her to develop a film project with an Italian co-producer, set in 1943 prior to the fall of Mussolini, with a U-boat skipper as one of the main characters. The Das Boot interior set still exists at Bavaria Film Studios, so that could help us a lot!

As it turns out, I've become the project's historical advisor re U-boats in the Med. Nicht schlecht! Let's just hope the funding comes through! :arrgh!:

Vielen Dank, Alle!
Wayne

As much as I'll miss the regular additions to the story... that ^^ is awesome! :yeah:

this

if you can make a career of it, many more could enjoy your stories!

I've really enjoyed reading this, I really hope professional writing works for you. Good luck with the funding for the movie! :yeah:

Good luck with that http://www.psionguild.org/forums/ima...s/thumbsup.gif

Funny thing, I was prowling IMDB.com to find a German actor who could play a U-boat skipper, and Ken Duken seemed to me the right type. Then I learned he's already playing Werner Hartenstein in "The Sinking of the Laconia"! :DL

This article about that film contains pix you may not have seen yet:

http://www.abendblatt.de/vermischtes...sene-Held.html

Interesting: it states their budget was 12 million euros. For this type of film, that's phenomenal! Such a deal!

I will miss reading these installations but, am super happy over your good news.

Good luck, to go along with your superior skills.
Thanks for sharing your talents with us.