Bruckner took a closer look at the crates. None had any labels or markings except a black Nazi Party emblem hastily stenciled on the top and no clue as to what lay inside. The long, flat ones were awkward for the prisoners to carry; but the small rectangular ones were heaviest. The prisoners struggled to keep their balance as they lugged them up the gangway and laid them on the deck. When the decks were covered, half the work party was sent below while the others began lowering the crates through the hatches into the fore and aft torpedo rooms. Well, Bruckner thought, at least he knew why Kruger gutted them, why he got rid of the deck gun, off-loaded the torpedoes, and why he ripped out the racks and loading gear. He needed room for all those damned crates!
As the cruel charade unfolded, Bruckner knew there was nothing he could do to stop it. Pity the poor Russians. They might be ignorant Slavs, but they were human beings and it was wrong to treat anyone this way. Eyes down, heads bowed, they never looked up, because they were terrified to be anywhere near the SS. Their stooped shuffle conserved energy and avoided attracting the attention of the guards. That was their secret. To be noticed or stand out was to be singled out and that could be fatal. But somewhere among them was that pair of black, angry eyes that scorched him through the truck window three days before. Where were they, he wondered?
Bruckner had enough. He was a sailor, a naval officer; but this was different. Kruger had reduced his once-proud submarine to little more than a tramp steamer. Where was the honor or dignity in that? Disgusted, he went below, but there was no escaping the young SS officer’s handiwork inside the boat either. Food and supplies were jammed into every nook and cranny, and that sealed Stolz’s fate.
“I’m truly sorry,” Bruckner told Stolz. “I haven’t half-enough room for my own men, so there’s no way I can take a new man aboard.”
“I understand, Herr Kapitan,” the slovenly truck driver answered, his eyes dropping to the deck in disappointment. “But don’t expect me to stop hoping, not until I see you and your boat disappear over the horizon.”
“Fair enough." He seemed to be a decent-enough fellow, Bruckner thought, and that made it all the harder. But the Kapitan had more important things on his mind, like the trim and balance of the boat. With all those heavy crates crammed in the torpedo rooms and fifty drums of diesel fuel riding high on the aft deck, he had no idea how she would fare in heavy seas. She could corkscrew and turn turtle and that would spell disaster for everyone. Even so, he couldn’t wait to leave. He’d put to sea in a charwoman’s mop bucket if that was what it took to be at the helm of his boat, where he could control his own destiny.
CHAPTER SIX
Bruckner watched as Stolz’s prisoners lashed and braced the last of the wooden crates in place in the forward torpedo room. "Kapitan," the intercom speaker above his head crackled. "Sturmbannführer Kruger requests you join him in the control room."
"Tell him I’ll be there shortly," Bruckner answered, hoping this might be the last time he would have to deal with the blond bastard. When Bruckner reached the control room, Kruger appeared to be studying the many maritime charts strewn across the chart table, toying with a pencil, a ruler, and the stainless-steel map compass lying there.
“The three days are up, Kapitan. Is the boat ready as promised?”
“I think so,” Bruckner grudgingly conceded. “And you have my compliments. I never thought anyone could get that much work done in such a short period of time.”
Kruger seemed mildly amused. “It is always amazing to see what a man can accomplish with the proper motivation. That’s an important lesson for an officer to learn.”
“My motivation is my men, Sturmbannführer, no more and no less, so let’s stop fencing. The tide will soon turn, and I intend to go out with it. May I have my orders?”
Kruger reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a silver cigarette case and a thick, white envelope. He laid them side by side on the table, opening the cigarette case first. “You don’t mind, do you?” he finally thought to ask.
Bruckner shrugged, willing to tolerate almost anything at this point. “I’m curious, Sturmbannführer Kruger, where do they find men like you?”
“Men like me?” Kruger put a cigarette between his lips, lit it, and took a slow, deep drag. “Actually, I was in a Jesuit seminary when I first heard the Führer speak.”
“A Jesuit seminary? You are jesting!”
“Not at all. I discovered a new god who was much more fun to work for.”
“Had you chosen to go to sea in a U-boat instead of marching with the SS, you’d have discovered the old one is more than enough for most men.”
Kruger laughed. “Bruckner, I shall miss you. You aren’t another slavish toad like most of the Navy types I’ve had the misfortune of dealing with. You have a brain and some backbone; you might actually make it.”
Bruckner looked down at the white envelope and frowned. Over the years, he had received more than his share of orders from the Kriegsmarine Headquarters. They always came in a blue envelope with a large, official wax seal over the flap. Kruger’s were in a white envelope with no seal. Where they had originated was anyone’s guess.
“They are from the Reich Chancellery for you personally and they supersede any other orders you have or any you may get,” Kruger told him. “They contain your destination, maps, radio frequencies, call signs, your contacts at the other end, the whole lot. Naturally, you shouldn’t open them until you’re well out to sea. Also, you’re not to have any contact with anyone — their ships, our ships, or your headquarters — until you get there. None. Strict radio silence. It’s for your own protection, I assure you.”
More lies, Bruckner knew. And that was exactly what he would have told this arrogant SS Major, if the crackling of the intercom hadn’t interrupted. “Kapitan?” the watch officer called down from the bridge. “A large limousine has pulled onto the pier carrying a man who says he is Gauleiter Koch. He insists on coming aboard and searching the boat.”
“Scheisse!” Kruger flung the envelope on the chart table and ground his cigarette out beneath the heel of his boot. “I told that fat buffoon to stay away from here!” he raged as he strode quickly away and climbed the ladder two rungs at a time.
Bruckner followed him up and when he reached the bridge, he saw a dangerous game unfolding on the pier below. Every eye in the submarine pen was riveted on a long black limousine parked at the foot of the gangway, as clean and shiny as the day it rolled off the production line in Stuttgart. It was a classic pre-war Mercedes, with a chrome spotlight mounted on each fender; and standing around it in a tight, nervous circle were a half-dozen Nazi Party SA Brown Shirts with brightly polished jackboots and machine pistols at the ready. They were the Party street thugs in the 1930s, whose specialty was beating up old men when the odds were four or five to one. Looking down on them from the corners and catwalks of the submarine pen was their new nemesis — young, heavily armed SS storm troopers. This time, it was the Brown Shirts who were outnumbered. They glanced anxiously at their leader, hoping he wouldn’t do anything stupid, but that wasn’t a particularly good bet. He was a squat, bull-necked lout with the bent nose of a bar-room brawler. He stood at the foot of the gangway, hands on hips, chin held high, in an oversized, military-style hat and a camel hair greatcoat draped over his shoulders like a movie star. “Kruger, you can’t get away from me that easily,” he said as he tapped his nose. “I am a bloodhound!” He took in the U-boat from one end to the other, and then raised his eyes to the bridge. “And you are the brave Kapitan Bruckner. Excellent, excellent. I am Koch!” he announced proudly, drawing it out like the flushing of a toilet.
Bruckner immediately recognized the name. He was the Gauleiter or Party boss here in Königsberg and the former Military Governor of the Ukraine. If the stories were even half-true, Koch was a brutal political hack who was capable of anything.
“Congratulations, Kruger. I see my dear ‘friend’ Martin has purloined another of Donitz’s U-boats, eh?” Koc
h grinned. “A rare find, indeed, and I know he wouldn’t waste it on anything trivial, now would he?” Bruckner’s heart sank. Kruger, Koch, and now Martin Bormann. What had they dragged him into?
Koch turned his attention to the ring of SS troops surrounding him and his men. “Such a waste of fine infantry,” his shrill voice rang out. “There’s a war going on, you know; I’d have thought these men would have better things to do with their time.”
"The Reichsleiter is a very careful man,” Kruger smiled.
“And for good reason, Kruger!” Koch sputtered. “It seems some thieves broke into one of my warehouses last night, right here in Königsberg, and walked off with some very valuable personal property of mine — trinkets, keepsakes, and a few souvenirs I brought with me from the East,” he glared menacingly up at the bridge. “Naturally, I’ve ordered a search of the city and the harbor — every ship and every boat — and to avoid the slightest hint of favoritism, I’m sure you’ll agree that the proper thing is to begin right here,” Koch said as he put his foot on the gangway.”
“No!” Bruckner screamed. “There’s a thousand gallons of fuel oil on the aft deck. One stray bullet could set it all off, so you two take your argument outside.”
Koch looked up at the bridge and smiled, believing he had finally outmaneuvered the young SS Major.
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that, Kapitan,” Kruger said as he drew his Luger, extended his arm, and took dead aim on the fat Gauleiter’s nose. “If you know my reputation with a handgun, you know there won’t be any stray shots. This boat is leaving, Herr Koch. If you or your men try to interfere, I’ll drop you where you stand.”
Koch glared up at him, but he finally removed his foot from the gangway.
“The tide is running, Herr Koch, and you can’t stop it,” Kruger continued. “Take it up with Bormann or take it up with the Führer for all I care, but this U-boat is leaving."
“The Führer? Don’t insult my intelligence, boy. The Führer hasn’t the slightest idea what you or his Party Secretary are up to, does he?”
"Why don’t you ask him, Herr Koch. I’m sure he would love to hear about the fine job you are doing defending Königsberg and about all those ‘personal possessions, keepsakes, and souvenirs’ you stockpiled in your warehouse.”
Koch sneered, but everyone knew he had lost. He took another step back and made a grand, operatic bow to the bridge. “You have the advantage today, Kruger. So auf Wiedersehen, until the next time we meet. And there will be a next time, for you, for my dear friend Bormann, and for the Kapitan too; because the fellow doesn’t look all that stupid to me. Are you, Bruckner? Are you that stupid?” Bruckner looked at Koch and at Kruger, but he said nothing. “No, the Kapitan knows exactly what this little cat fight is about; and he knows he’ll pay a very heavy price if he gets lost or has a little ‘accident’ with MY possessions on his long journey.”
With a theatrical sweep, Koch spun on his heels and headed for his waiting limousine. Halfway there, one of the Russian prisoners had the misfortune to cross his path as he scurried back to the truck. “Russians? Russians!” Koch screamed as he turned to face Kruger again. “Whose idea was it to bring them in here? They have seen… everything!”
“My mistake, Herr Koch,” Kruger seemed amused. “We should have asked your Brown Shirts to unload the trucks. They look like they could use the exercise."
Koch’s expression turned sinister. “Russians! They’re animals and should never have been permitted to foul our sacred German soil. If I only had more time, to finish the job in the Ukraine…” His hand trembled as he pointed an accusing finger at Kruger. “If they talk, it’s on your head.” In three short strides, Koch reached the rear door of the Mercedes and disappeared inside. His bodyguards quickly joined him, only too eager to get out from under the guns of the SS. The car doors slammed shut, but the big car didn’t move. It continued to sit on the pier like a hungry predator, watching and waiting.
Kruger spotted Stolz standing near his truck and shouted at him. “You! Get that rabble of yours out of here. Now!” he ordered, anxious to put an end to this deadly sideshow before the angry Gauleiter tried his luck a second time.
Stolz grabbed the stragglers and pushed them toward the truck. They climbed inside; he slammed the tailgate and ran around to the cab. The old diesel engine cranked and filled the concrete cavern with a blue cloud of exhaust. Stolz looked up at the bridge. “Maybe next time, Herr Kapitan,” he waved and dropped the truck into gear, but they both knew there would be no next time. As the truck backed out the door, Koch’s staff car sprang to life and followed Stolz out and into the dark shipyard beyond.
Only then did Kruger seem to relax. He turned toward the Kapitan and said, “You have your orders, Bruckner. Now, get the hell out of here before that maniac comes back. There is no telling what he might try next time.”
“We shall be underway in ten minutes,” Bruckner replied, anxious to rid himself of Koch, Kruger, and all the rest of this nightmare.
“Excellent. With luck, you and I shall be seeing each other at your destination.”
“I can hardly wait,” Bruckner answered.
“I’m sure you can’t,” Kruger laughed at the man’s nerve. “So bon voyage, eh?”
Bon voyage! Bruckner bit his tongue as the young SS Major climbed down the ladder and crossed the deck to the gangway. Bon voyage? The world had gone completely mad.
The deck hands switched off the overhead lights inside the submarine pen, and the concrete cavern went dark. The steel outer door was ratcheted up and a blast of arctic air blew inside, reminding the crew of the brutal world they were about to re-enter. “Lookouts to the bridge. Single-up the lines,” the Kapitan ordered as he looked down from the bridge. The diesel engines kicked over with a basso Thrumpf, sending a blue-gray cloud rolling along the ceiling.
“Cast off. Reverse engines one-third,” he ordered, determined not to waste a single minute putting Königsberg behind him. The U-boat crept backwards, gaining speed as it arced backward into the dark harbor. As the conning tower passed through the open door, Bruckner exulted knowing he was back in command, of his boat and his life, doing the one thing in the world he could do best. He was an officer in the Kriegsmarine; and by God, he would act like one.
“Kapitan!” an anxious lookout called down to him, pointing back into the darkened submarine pen. “Look!”
Bruckner turned and saw the dim figure of a man running toward them down the long pier. He wore a long overcoat that flapped behind him as he waved his arms at them. Bruckner squinted. The shape? That ragged overcoat? It was Stolz! Bruckner slammed his fist on the cold, wet steel of the conning tower. Damn the man! In the Navy, a ship captain’s order was law. He told Stolz there was no room on board. If the slovenly truck driver thought he could steal a ride, he was sadly mistaken. But even in the dark U-boat pen, Bruckner saw something was wrong, something was very wrong. Stolz was sprinting, faster than the Kapitan ever thought possible, looking back over his shoulder as if the hounds of hell were snapping at his heels. Maybe they were. Stolz tore off the overcoat and tossed it aside, his feet pounding even faster on the bare concrete, not that it mattered. The U-boat was picking up speed and Stolz was running out of pier. Soon, the bow of the U-boat would be out of his reach.
“Run, man! Faster!” one of the lookouts shouted.
“Mind your watch!” Bruckner snapped. As much as he hated to admit it, he found himself cheering for the damned fool too; but there was no chance. If Stolz had any sense, he’d pull up before he ended up in the icy black water; but the fool refused to stop. He flew across those last few yards of concrete and leaped off the end of the pier, his arms and legs flailing as he reached for the U-boat’s bow plate. What a desperate gamble! If he came up short or lost his grip on the wet steel, he’d be gone in seconds, but he didn’t. He landed hard on the round edge of the bow plate. He bounced and began to slip backward, but his right arm found a mooring cleat. He wrapped both arms around it
and hung on for dear life, the toes of his old Polish cavalry boots raking the U-boat’s pitted steel hull. He searched in vain for a toehold; but there was none. Exhausted, he finally stopped his desperate struggling and turned his plaintive eyes up toward the bridge.
Bruckner glared down at him. Stolz had willfully disobeyed his order. If this were any time other than the dead of winter, he would let him hang there until he got a good dunking in the harbor, but in this weather that would be a death sentence. “Ah, pull the damned fool in!” Bruckner growled, knowing he was trapped. There was no time to return to the pen and toss Stolz back on the pier. Well, if Bruckner was stuck with Stolz; then, by God, the man would rue the day he stole a free ride on this U-boat.
“Reverse engines, full speed ahead," Bruckner roared, as the twin screws bit the water and kicked up a frothy wake. The U-582’s stern dug in and propelled the boat forward, arcing toward the harbor entrance. Two seamen pulled the badly shaken truck driver off the bow cleat and rolled him up on deck. They gave him a moment to catch his breath, before they picked him up and dragged him limp-legged to the bridge.
“Damn it, Stolz! I should chuck you overboard,” Bruckner roared.
“Kapitan,” the truck driver gasped, pale and shaken. “You don’t understand. They’d have killed me if I didn’t…”
“Killed you? Who’d have killed you?”
“Koch… Gauleiter Koch and his men. My God, it was a blood bath,” he sobbed. “They pushed those poor Russians up against the wall and shot them down like dogs.”
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