by Jana Petken
“They’re behind the nets.”
“Do not use them unless I give you the distress signal we discussed, or I’m dead, in which case you have my permission to shoot the Nazi buggers.” The signal in question, removing his tweed flat-cap and scratching his head, was a simple but highly visible act that both Romek and the lieutenant would be able to spot. Max wasn’t carrying his semi-automatic pistol, but he was confident that should there be a disaster he and his men would have the element of surprise on their side. Heller had decided against giving Romek a weapon, but Max had informed his boss that Romek would refuse to take part in what could be a dangerous mission without being armed. Heller had relented at the last minute, but he’d not been happy about it.
The dinghy’s outline grew larger without the need for binoculars. With his last chance to give instructions, Max reminded the lieutenant, “Remember, if you see this going south, get on the radio to Coastal Forces for the Motor-Torpedo-Boats immediately and give the order to the MTB skippers to blow that sub out of the water. We’re going into the unknown, Patrick. Romek and I might not have time or opportunity to signal you, but I trust you’ll use your initiative?”
“Yes, I will. You can count on me, Horace.”
Max smiled. “That will be all. Good luck, gentlemen.”
“Well? What do you see?” Max asked Romek when he joined him on the mid-port side.
“Three figures in the dinghy,” said Romek, lowering the binoculars. Then he looked again, this time past the transfer boat. “There she is,” he said spotting the grey outline of a submarine’s conning tower.
“We have one shot at this, Romek,” Max said solemnly. “Don’t cock it up. And for God’s sake, don’t let your tongue run away with you.”
“I know, I know. Get as much information as we can out of him and say as little as possible. Find out what his intentions are for you and his explosives, and make sure he leaves here a contented man. Jesus, Max, I feel like throwing up. Get off my back, will you?” Romek grumbled, rolling his eyes.
Five minutes later, Romek leant over the port side and called out to Matador as the rubber dinghy came alongside. “Welcome to England!”
The German sailor in the dinghy threw a line to Romek.
“Got it. Come aboard.” Romek shouted as he wound the rope around a jam-cleat.
Max studied the interaction between the first German who was climbing onto the trawler’s deck and Romek, who now stood grinning like an excited boy seeing a long-lost school chum.
“Great to see you, my friend, Señor Matador,” Romek said in German and Spanish, his arms wide in welcome.
“I’m happy we could do this, Cicero. But we will not meet again at sea. It’s far too dangerous for missions like these. I am, as the English say, on tenterhooks,” Matador said, shaking Romek’s hand.
“Seems like all the seas in the world are overcrowded with German ships, the British Navy, the Japanese, and now the Americans. But we take our chances for the sake of duty all the same,” Romek responded, patting Matador’s arm and waving towards Max. “Well, here is Horace, as requested. He was delighted to hear you wanted to meet him in person.”
Max shook Matador’s hand. “Sure, and it’s nice to meet you, sir,” he said in his natural London accent with a slight touch of an Irish brogue.
“This is my associate.” Matador introduced the other German who climbed nimbly onto the deck.
Max eyed the man, so far unnamed. He was much younger than Matador and appeared jumpy as his eyes swept the trawler and the British sailors, who were observing the scene with interest from the stern area.
“Perhaps those fishermen could help my associate bring the contraband onboard?” Matador asked Romek.
“Is it what I think it is?”
“Of course. Delivered as promised.”
Romek peered down at the dinghy, then he gestured to the British sailors to come to mid-port. “You men – see those blocks of wood in the dinghy? I want them stowed below. Help our guest – and handle the wood with care,” he instructed the three men.
“Horace, your explosives are inside the hollowed-out blocks,” Matador told Max in German.
Max cocked his head to the side in response, then looked to Romek for help.
“He said the explosives are hidden in the wood … inside the wood,” Romek translated into English.
Max grinned and tipped his flat-cap. “Thank you very much, sir. An’ I’ll be puttin’ them to good use, to be sure.”
“He’s raring to go,” Romek added in German for good measure.
For a while, Matador and Romek spoke about the new technology that Matador had brought. Matador began the conversation in German but then switched to English, forcing Max to converse with him directly.
“Have you used this new photographic device before?” Matador asked.
Max turned the tiny camera in his hand. “Yes, I’m familiar with it. It won’t be a problem at all.”
“Will you excuse us for a moment, Horace?” Matador gestured to Romek to follow him to the bow.
Max and the unnamed German, whom Max presumed was an Abwehr agent, stood together in uncomfortable silence. The Royal Navy men had stacked the blocks of wood below and were now returning to the fantail where they’d been ordered to remain. They wouldn’t be able to hear a thing, but they could monitor everything from there, and if necessary, get to their weapons lodged behind the nets in seconds.
Max gazed at the submarine, too distant to spot men on its deck, but just visible enough to see the outline of its conning tower. His plan was simple, on paper, but it all depended on Matador being predictable. As soon as he got back on board the sub, he’d probably send a coded message to the Abwehr in Berlin, confirming that the meeting had been successful, before diving and returning to … wherever. Or maybe the U-boat captain would pre-empt Matador and transmit success upon seeing the Germans leaving the trawler?
The lieutenant had been ordered to instruct the skippers of the two Royal Navy MTBs to move in for a strike as soon as he saw Matador departing the fishing boat. The torpedo boats were positioned out of visual contact; one to the north and one to the south. Both were in possession of the sub’s coordinates, and the time they would need to prepare and strike had been calculated. The Germans’ rubber dinghy would have to master the swells on its way back to the sub, giving the MTBs time to begin their attack run. Max assumed that the U-boat captain would expect to ping a British naval vessel at some point during their waiting period. After all, they were in British seas. The question was: what might he do if he felt truly threatened?
Max was also mindful that the Germans would go radio silent as soon as they began going under, and thus, the last thing Berlin would hear from Matador was that the mission had gone without a hitch. War was unpredictable, of course, as were the actions of men, so he only had his instinct and what the Royal Navy Intelligence branch would do were they in the Germans’ position.
Max peered again at the British sailors, now sitting on the pile of nets that concealed their weapons. Behind him, at the bow, snippets of Matador and Romek’s conversation in German wafted to him. He couldn’t catch every word but had a good idea of the subject matter.
“… although they claim to hate the British as much as Horace does,” Romek was saying, “I’m not taking the chance of them going to the authorities when they get ashore…”
“… double crossers would report seeing us,” Matador was agreeing.
Max strained to hear more, but he only managed to pick up the tail end of the conversation with Romek insisting, “… despite being bribed with the promise of money for using their trawler for the night, the only way to make sure they keep their mouths shut is to put them down.”
Matador’s response was indistinguishable, but Romek was nodding, “Yes. I’ll kill the three of them before the trawler reaches harbour.”
“Come here, Horace,” Romek shouted to Max in English.
Max joined the two men and, scowl
ing with impatience, asked Romek, “What’s goin’ on ‘ere? We’ll be ‘avin’ the British Navy spottin’ us if we don’t wrap this up soon. I don’t want to get killed ‘afore I get the chance to blow something up. C’mon, we need to be leavin’ right now. This is givin’ me the bleedin’ shits.”
“Don’t worry, Horace. We are quite safe for the moment,” Matador said in English, as though he were Poseidon in control of the war-torn seas. “Cicero and I were discussing you. We want to give you the best possible chance to succeed, so I put it to Cicero that you should come with me to Berlin to train with the Abwehr in sabotage expertise. Gut … ja?”
Max looked surprised but hid his alarm. Unpredictability had reared its ugly head. “No. Not gut at all. I can’t do that. I appreciate your offer, sir, but sure, you must know I’m a married man. I can’t just up and leave my wife and my job at the docks without a bit of notice. She’ll be onto the police in a jiffy.”
Matador gestured to his associate to join the group, as Max considered the possibility of being whisked away to Berlin. It would be a great opportunity to spy on the Abwehr, but not for him, not with his face and background. Those two things could blow him out the proverbial water; he could be recognised as Dieter Vogel’s son or mistaken for Paul. Neither scenario bore thinking about. He looked at the two Germans, whose stern expressions suggested it was not a request that he go, but a demand.
“No, no, it’s not possible. I want to help you, God knows I do, but like I said, I can’t just up sticks and disappear on me wife.” Max gave Romek and the lieutenant the agreed-upon distress signal by removing his flat cap and scratching his head. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Patrick casually get to his feet, stretch, and then disappear below, hopefully, to contact the torpedo boats. Romek then slipped his hand into his coat pocket.
“No, not tonight – tell you what, I’ll get in touch wid ya through your man, here,” Max suggested, gesturing towards Romek. “I mean, cooperating wid ya in England is one thing, but going to Germany? Well …it’s not what I ‘ad in mind.”
Matador wagged his index finger in Max’s face. “Ah, this is awkward – dear, dear. Now, I’m wondering about your commitment, Horace.”
“I am committed, otherwise I wouldn’t be in the bloody North Sea freezing me balls off and committin’ treason.”
“You said he would do whatever it takes,” Romek snapped at Matador, surprising Max. “He’d better not be a double agent.”
Romek then went a step further by getting his gun out of his pocket and pointing it in Max’s face. “Why are you not happy about this offer? Is it because you’re not taking this seriously? Are you a British spy?”
“Get that gun away from me bloody face or bejesus, I’ll ram it up your arse and fire it out your mouth!” Max growled at Romek.
“Now, now, put your gun away, Cicero,” Matador told Romek in German. “No need for violence. If Horace doesn’t come with us, he can’t be trusted, it’s as simple as that.”
“You do what you have to, but my gun is staying where it is,” Romek insisted.
Max, his eye on Romek, felt his sleeve being tugged and turned sharply to Matador. “I don’t like being touched,” he grumbled.
“And I don’t like the thought of going back to Berlin without what I came for,” Matador said, his voice placating as he removed his hand. “Will you disappoint me, Horace? Can I trust you, or must our association end before we’ve even started?”
Max felt heat spread from his neck to his face. Go with him or die, was what Matador was saying. With no way to untangle himself from the Abwehr officer’s web, Max tried to play for time. Thus far, only Romek’s gun was visible, leading Max to believe that Matador fully trusted him and didn’t see Horace as a serious threat, at least not yet.
Max chuckled, “This carry-on doesn’t bode well for our future understandin’, does it? But sure, all right … all right, I’ll go wid ya. Jesus, Mother, and Joseph, if I’d a known, I’d have brought me toothbrush and pyjamas.”
Romek lowered his weapon but didn’t return it to his coat pocket. The sailors near the stern kept their eyes on Max, waiting for a signal to intervene directly. Because of this turn of events, Max now worried that Matador and his associate might kill the British sailors to make sure they didn’t reach Grimsby alive, despite Romek’s earlier promise to dispose of them. Yes, the Germans seemed to have confidence in Romek, but Matador was proving to be an unpredictable character who might just be hiding a semi-automatic weapon of his own under the ample folds of his coat.
“Then it’s decided, Horace,” Matador said, a cheerful smile on his face. “You understand why I insist, don’t you?”
“I suppose you want to confirm I’m loyal and not be tryin’ to get one over on ya,” Max said. “You can trust me, sir, I’m all for the Nazis giving it to the British. But you could have asked me in a nicer way. I only met this Polish git day before yesterday, and I didn’t like him shoving his bloody gun in me face. Seems to me you need to teach ‘im some bleedin’ manners.”
Matador appeared amused before giving Romek a farewell handshake. “We’ll have ein glas Mistela the next time we meet. Perhaps it will be in some street in London after our successful invasion,” he told Romek. “We’ll have fun, a good time like our soldiers in Paris are having.”
“I’ll look forward to that.” Romek gestured to Max with his pistol. “Good luck with this one. I need to start using the new technology you gave me as soon as possible. I’ve got a good brain, but I don’t get along with all this modern equipment business, so send him back to me quickly.”
“Ja, selbstverständlich! Of course. He’s one of the reasons I came here in person … a bird in the hand, as the English say. He will be a … Ah, ja. Ein gut egg, when he returns.”
Matador gestured to the rope ladder. “Down you go then, Horace. Cicero will look after your explosives, and he’ll keep his eye on your wife until you return – ach, why so glum? This is a good thing, nein?”
“Keep your mitts off my explosives,” Max told Romek as he put his first leg over the side and onto the rung of the ladder to the dinghy. Germany? Not bloody likely. Time had run out, and so had easy solutions.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Max, the first man to disembark the trawler, swung his leg over the port side and put his foot on the top rung of the ladder. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted that the lieutenant had not returned. The two sailors were still lounging on the nets, and Romek was continuing to say goodbye to Matador.
As he climbed into the rubber dinghy, Max plotted escape scenarios in his head. A lot could go wrong. Much of his plan depended on the actions of others; the lieutenant having sent the order to sink the sub, Romek not choosing tonight to take his revenge on him for being Klara’s lover, and himself, having the luck to sort this mess out whilst remaining in one piece. He nodded to the young German sailor seated between the oars, relieved that the man wasn’t armed, at least not visibly, and then he sat on one of the three blown-up seats that ran the width of the vessel and watched Matador come aboard.
Max trained his eyes on Romek’s handler, looking for signs or gestures he might be sending to the U-boat officer in the coning tower, who was probably watching everything that was happening on and around the trawler. His subject appeared relaxed as he sat in the forward seat, behind the German sailor but facing Max.
“Have you ever tried Rostbratwurst, Horace?” Matador asked over the sailor’s shoulder.
“You wot’? No. Can’t say I ‘ave, sir,” Max answered.
“You will enjoy it. It is a sausage, you know.”
“Is that right?”
“Made from finely minced pork and beef. Usually we grill it and serve it with sweet German mustard and crusty bread – quite delicious.”
“I’ll look forward to that,” Max said.
“Ach, you will enjoy many things the Fatherland has to offer,” Matador was still rambling on like a German tourist guide.
The unn
amed associate got into the dinghy and then caught the line that Romek threw down. Once the man was seated next to Max, Matador gave the order to the German sailor to start rowing towards the U-boat.
Max looked up at Romek, removed his cap and ran his fingers through his hair. Romek tipped his cap as a farewell gesture, but also returning Max’s signal.
As the dinghy began to move off, Matador spoke to his man in rapid German about the captain of the sub. Max listened intently, but he was also facing the trawler and keeping his eyes on the deck for the sign that would launch his escape. He needed a sign; the timing had to be perfect or near as damn to it if he were to stand a chance. For the first time that night, he admitted to being terrified.
“… he has been instructed to dive as soon as we are secure on board.”
Finally, the associate spoke, “Will he be able to alert Berlin that the meeting was a success before we go under?”
“I presume he has already done so.”
Max caught a glimpse of glinting metal emanating from Romek’s figure. It was time. Beneath his feet, the dinghy lurched as it met a swell. The water looked freezing cold. If he went in, he’d have about three minutes, tops, before his body went into shock.
“Don’t be nervous, Horace. Submarines are quite safe,” Matador said.
Max nodded, whilst placing a hand on the lip of the dinghy, which was now bucking as it met another gentle roller. “Sure, I’m looking forward to a ride in that thing.” Petrified, but also resolved to escape, Max sucked in his breath, half-rose, and then did a backward flip into the icy sea.
Within seconds, the freezing water bit into Max’s skin through his heavy clothing that pulled him downwards at an alarming speed. Disorientated and spiralling blind, his situation was compounded by the muffled sound of shells from the British Bren light machinegun; the British were spraying the dinghy and its occupants with bullets.
He was almost out of oxygen, his limbs were cramping, and as he thrashed his way upwards, he felt as though he were hauling a two-ton anchor with him.
