(Story) The Italian Squadron

[DanBiddle]

Thanks Jimbuna! Such kind words

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

[danlisa]

WooHoo, Still going strong.

[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."