"They'll be alright. Two destroyers damaged. Not as bad as Kiel."
"And was Goering at your meeting?" Reichsmarschall Hermann Goering was Reichsminister of the Luftwaffe, thus responsible for Germany's air defense. The horror of Rostok was ultimately his responsibility.
Dönitz shook his head. "At Karinhall playing with his shotguns and toy trains."
And you talk about Oster having a big mouth, thought Canaris. "What can I do for you, Karl?"
BdU was silent while Canaris dug out a glass and poured schnapps for himself. The U-boat admiral took the bottle, refilled his glass, sipped; and looked out the window.
Canaris lost patience. "Karl, damnit. I'm busy."
"Yes, yes. I think your report has merit."
"Which one?" The Abwehr generated kilos of paper.
"American torpedoes. How did you do it?"
"Ah, yes. We got two of our people in through basic training in the Great Lakes Naval Station. Then, they were assigned duty in the Navy ordnance laboratory."
"When was the last time you heard from them?"
"Nine weeks ago."
"Then..."
"Yes. They're way overdue."
Recently, Canaris’ spies had confirmed American magnetic exploders and depth engines were defective, with their torpedo failure rates soaring to fifty percent. Dönitz's torpedoes suffered similar problems, and he needed to know more. The irony was that the Americans copied early German torpedoes. Then during the 1930s, Germans copied the American designs. But now, BdU shook his head, it seemed Canaris’ spies were caught. Dead probably. Hoover didn't waste time.
Dönitz sighed. "Both of them?"
"It looks that way. Have you been able to do anything with what we've given you?"
"At least I stopped the investigation."
"I didn't realize there was one."
Dönitz drank up. "Oh, yes. Himmler sent in Kaltenbrunner to investigate our torpedo experimental laboratory. He court-martialed three of my best technicians. Two were hanged. The other, he sent to the Eastern Front as a private." The admiral slapped his knees. "And, now it turns out the American design is faulty. Too bad Kaltenbrunner can't go to America and hang a few people there. Ehh?" He looked up to Canaris with mirthless eyes.
"And you want us to do what?"
"Penetrate that laboratory again. We need more data on the magnetic exploder designs so we can retrofit."
"I'm not sure. Hoover's G-Men scoop up our people like acorns."
"That's your problem. Fix it." Looking up, BdU's tiny pupils were like embers. "Wilhelm. We've had to revert to the old contact exploders. It could take well over a year to develop a new magnetic design. I must find out what the Americans are doing to retrofit their exploders and depth engines. It will save us an enormous amount of time."
Dönitz had somehow changed, and Canaris felt uncomfortable. BdU had no compassion for anyone, he decided. With no remorse, the man would cut him down as easily as one of his U-Boats putting a helpless tanker under. Canaris shrugged, "We will do our best, Karl."
"Good. And don't let Oster in on this. My torpedo laboratory has been tainted enough."
"Alright." Canaris nodded solemnly hoping his old U-boat friend would never learn he and Oster shared everything. Both were up to their necks in the resistance movement against Hitler. He decided to take a chance and sat forward. "It's well you're here. I need help, too."
Dönitz's face turned blank.
Canaris said, "I need to get word to Oshima right away."
"Then talk to--"
Canaris waved a hand. "Ribbentrop is such an ass. There's just no cooperation. I'd like you to do it." Foreign Minister Joachim von Ribbentrop was the primary contact to General Hiroshi Oshima, Japan's ambassador to the Reich. But what Canaris didn't tell Dönitz was that he had met the Japanese ambassador two years ago during a Führer reception. Then he'd learned from an operative in Britain that the Americans had cracked one of the Japanese political codes. He'd gone to Oshima's office and told him directly. Oshima as much as said Canaris was crazy and that honorable Japanese codes were impenetrable. Canaris lost patience and made the mistake of arguing with the little twit. With loss of face, Oshima sat frozen in his chair. The interview was over. After three minutes of silence, Canaris stood, bowed stiffly, and walked out. None of this was explained to Dönitz.
BdU asked, "What is it?"
"We picked up an NHK broadcast fifteen minutes ago. Corregidor surrendered."
BdU looked in the distance. "The Japanese have all the damned luck." Like an attack periscope, he swung his gaze on to Canaris. "What does Oshima have to do with that?"
Canaris said, "We have a man in there. He could be in a very sensitive position."
"Doing what?"
"Cryptography. He works in the U.S. Navy Radio Intercept Tunnel."
"Wilhelm!" Dönitz almost smiled.
"I inserted him almost a year ago hoping he would be assigned to Hawaii. Instead, he received orders to the Philippines. Before he left, Döttmer told us--"
"Döttmer?"
"Kapitänleutnant Helmut Döttmer. One of my best. But we haven't heard from him since early December. I'm sure he's onto something."
"I see," said Dönitz, rubbing his chin.
Canaris slowly twirled in his chair and looked out seeing the rain had dwindled to a foggy mist. He took a slow sip of schnapps, let it burn on his tongue for a moment, then knocked it back. He spun to face Dönitz. "I need Oshima to tell the Japanese general in the Philippines to order his people to make sure Döttmer is not killed when they occupy Corregidor and sort out prisoners."
"I don't think you have to--"
"Karl," said Canaris, spreading his hands. "Hong Kong. Singapore."
Dönitz slowly nodded
"Tell Oshima at once. I want Döttmer back, please."
"You have specifics?"
"I'll send a description with photo. He's impersonating a sailor by the name of Walter Radtke, cryptographer technician second class."
Dönitz scratched his cheek, "Döttmer. Döttmer. Hmmm. Isn't there a Döttmer that plays for Furtwängler?" Wilhelm Furtwängler was the music director of the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra.
"His father. Kurt Döttmer. Leads the brass section."
"That's the one."
"One of the best on trumpet. Played for the New York Philharmonic when he lived in America. Was good at jazz, too. Made recordings and formed a quintet when he returned. Himmler had him investigated for playing decadent music and tried to concoct a story passing him off as Jewish. Furtwängler put up such a stink to Goebbels that even Himmler had to back off."
"And the son?"
"Plays as well as his father. Strange though." Canaris stroked his chin. "I had a long talk with the lad one night before his first taste of action."
"Where was that?"
"Greece."
"A cakewalk."
"We didn't know that at the time. He was nervous and handled it well. Turns out he's a virtuoso on the trumpet but hates it. Wanted the violin, but then some roughneck urchins did something to his left hand when he lived in New York making it impossible to play with his left. Outwardly it doesn't look bad. His fourth finger is flexed--cocked and he has no feeling in his little finger. They're both very stiff."
"Is this significant?"
"We were worried about them catching him with the medical records. The real Radtke doesn't have a deformed ring finger. And Döttmer keeps his left hand out of sight anyway from embarrassment. We thought it was worth the chance."
"Elaborate operations have been tripped up for tinier reasons than that."
"I know."
"Tell me. What happened after they wrecked his hand?"
"He was forced into the trumpet. Interesting don't you think? Döttmer hates Americans--they ruined his chance to play the violin and crawl out from under his father's shadow. After the injury, Papa Kurt--his father--tutored him, forced him. Even at that he was a natural and became very accomplished. In fact, his cod
e name for this operation is 'HECKLE.' Because of his--
Dönitz snapped his fingers, "Heckle, Heckle. Don't we do business with them? Electronics, isn't it? Something like that. What do they build?" BdU leaned forward.
"Heckle builds trumpets. The finest available. My code name in this operation is 'BESSON.'"
"So many makers of musical instruments. Why don't we convert them to war production?"
"Besson is French. They make piston-valve trumpets. The best. Heckle is rotary-valve."
"What?" Dönitz's tone was incredulous. "Have you been getting enough sleep, Wilhelm?"
Canaris shrugged.
"Döttmer could be already dead."
"Maybe. But Corregidor is laced with tunnels. He's had a safe place to stay."
Dönitz looked at the crystal schnapps decanter for a moment.
Canaris picked it up and waved it.
Dönitz gave a long sigh, "Nein." He stood and picked up his coat. Working his arms into the sleeves, he said, "Very good. Helmut Döttmer known as Walter Radtke. Code name HECKLE. Yes. I can handle Ribbentrop. He sees Oshima almost daily. I'll make sure he takes care of it." Dönitz finished with his buttons and looked down to Canaris. "And you'll put some people on the torpedo project right away?"
"Absolutely."
With thumb and forefinger, BdU placed his cap on his head and squared it over his nose. "Keep Oster away from it."
"Absolutely."
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
6 May, 1942
U.S.S. Pima (ATF 63)
Aground Caballo Island, Manila Bay, Philippines
Ingram tied the thirty-six foot shoreboat to the Pima, a battered tugboat of World War I vintage. The old workhorse had taken a mortal bomb hit in her engine room a few weeks before, and her crew had beached her a few hundred yards north of Caballo's docks. With a thirty degree list to port, her tall funnel had fallen over, her main deck was awash, and junk littered her topsides. Bobbing next to such a miserable derelict, he figured the 51 Boat would look abandoned, too. And so, the hungry Zeros left Ingram, DeWitt, Holloway, and Sunderland alone to roam inside the wreck.
Almost immediately, Ingram found what he wanted lashed beside the Pima's towing reel on the main deck. For the next forty-five minutes, the four of them, sweating and cursing in the thick, humid heat, wrestled four barrels of diesel fuel aboard the 51 Boat. Each fifty-gallon drum weighed 350 pounds. When it was done, Ingram’s tongue hung comically as he sank to the deck splayed on hands and knees.
After resting he went scavenging for whatever else the Pima offered, finding charts, sextant, binoculars, flashlights, dividers, and a Nautical Almanac; even a Bible, Book of Common Prayer, and a hymnal. But there was no Bowditch or Hydrographic publication, both essential for star shots. In the crew compartment, Holloway and DeWitt rescued blankets, clothing, and foul-weather gear. A resourceful Sunderland broke the lock on the gun locker producing four BARs, two Springfield rifles, ammunition, and some dynamite with caps and fuses.
At about five-thirty, Ingram instinctively ducked, hearing the wheeee of artillery shells. Incredulously, he cursed, as the Japanese barrage resumed on Caballo Island, while white flags continued to pathetically flutter from the flagpoles. In short order, the twin engine Bettys once again droned overhead to bomb. Soon, a magazine erupted on the other side of the island, sending trees, boulders, roiling flames and smoke hundreds of feet in the air. Ingram held his ears and thanked God, knowing they would have been killed had the explosion been on this side of the island.
His relief was short-lived when a moment later a stick of bombs raced down the beach, no further than fifty yards past the tilted Pima. In a hideously detached way, he listened to his own screaming as he was thrown off the pilothouse deck against tables and bulkheads, while red, garish flames lighted up the space.
It was over. Ingram looked out the porthole finding the bombs had been powerful enough to shift the Pima slightly in her grave. Turning back, he sat and stared at DeWitt staring at him. For fifteen minutes he lay in a world of hideous, horribly vibrating explosions, watching a drop of blood creep from a cut on DeWitt's forehead down the side of his face. But with the return of his hearing came ringing ears and a terrible headache.
The bombardment raged on with artillery, machine gun and rifle fire rattling on Corregidor's west end. On occasion, a flamethrower plume would arch across a hill or into one of the Rock's gullies, eating at pillboxes and artillery bunkers. It was hard to tell who was on which end and, finally, Ingram asked DeWitt, "Our guys have flamethrowers?"
DeWitt choked back a sob, "Not us. Never seen one until now."
* * * * *
The sun's lower limb touched the South China Sea as the barrage raged on. With the others still scavenging the ship, Ingram and DeWitt sat on the pilothouse deck, watching the Pima's bulkhead mounted chronometer: 1806. The clock seemed to go slower and slower. Every minute passed in agony, as the secondhand jerked its spasmodic circular path.
During a lull, a ripping sound echoed up to the bridge.
"What the hell's that?" demanded DeWitt.
"Don't know." Ingram shouted, "Holloway!"
It took a few moments for Holloway, his face bathed in the sunset's crimson glow, to labor up the deckhouse ladder. He was out of breath and finally managed, "Skipper?"
"What's going on?"
Holloway puffed, "Found a void near the after steering lazarette. Damn hatch was double-locked and labeled 'flammable.' Seems the snipes had chow squirreled away. Found several cases of corned beef, canned salmon and a case of tomato juice, large cans."
"Really?" DeWitt licked his lips.
Holloway clambered up the rest of the way and panted, "It's all loaded. Everything. Damn. I'm done in." He flopped to the deck, breathing deeply.
Unspoken was Ingram's worry that the enemy could storm the island before sunset, blocking their departure. He looked at the bulkhead chronometer for the tenth time in the last five minutes: 1817. Then he shot a glance at Holloway and, despite his anxiety, almost laughed. Holloway's eyes had been fixed on the clock. DeWitt watched too. All of them willed each tug of the second hand to bump faster; to end this damning sunlight.
At length, DeWitt's Adam's apple bounced a couple of times. He said, "Lieutenant. About Radtke."
A shell landed close by making everything rattle.
DeWitt continued, "Do you remember the night the PBY crashed?"
"What about it?"
"Mordkin went back out that night and fished out--"
Holloway interrupted, "Do we have enough gas, Skipper?"
"No," said Ingram.
"Damnit. I'm speaking, Mister," said DeWitt.
Holloway turned redder than the sunset. He moved to say something but Ingram interrupted, "Knock that stuff off, both of you."
The jaygee and the sputtering Major glared at each other.
Ingram cleared his throat and said, "I figure at least eight and a half barrels of fuel oil are needed for the nineteen hundred miles to Australia. That means we need five barrels more."
Holloway's eyes slid from DeWitt to Ingram. "Maybe we won't need to go all the way. What about Mindanao?"
Ingram quickly did the math. It was about 450 miles due south to Mindanao. The four barrels they now had gave them a range of almost double. "We have plenty for that, but I want to grab more fuel if there's a chance."
They fell silent and fixed their eyes on the clock again, with DeWitt deciding to table his discussion about Radtke.
Twilight deepened, and Sunderland crawled up the ladder to join them on the pilothouse deck chomping the stub of La Follette's cigar. He groaned, "No cigars, no cigarettes, no nuthin'. We looked everywhere."
With the Pima's thirty-degree list, it was easy to plop against the port bulkhead. "What's wrong with everybody?" he asked, looking at the clock.
"Diesel fuel," said Ingram. "We need five more barrels."
"Bunch of it in that generator shed at the head of the pier," said Sunderland.
>
Holloway sighed. "Is it still intact?"
"Last time I looked," said Sunderland.
"That's what we'll do, then," said Ingram.
The bombardment intensified with the deepening twilight and hearing the shells crumff augmented their tension. Ingram felt the others staring at him. Imploring. Begging. "Go!" their faces said.
He closed his eyes intending to count to five hundred. But after a while, his mind drifted and he lost his place. Then, he looked at the clock. A detonation close by shook the Pima and the flash was enough to tell him it was 1848.
He rose and peered out the porthole.
Instantly, the others stood. It was still hot and humid but reasonably dark. Good enough, he thought. Another shell flashed, making the sweat on their foreheads glisten.
He drummed his fingers for a moment, then said, "Think you can start that thing, Sunderland?"
"You bet!" said the gunner's mate.
They scrambled into the 51 Boat and Sunderland got her going without too much trouble. They cast off, and five minutes later eased into a mooring at the Caballo Dock. The island was grimly silhouetted by shells lighting up the area like gigantic flashbulbs.
"Why are the Japs still shooting?" yelled Holloway.
Ingram shrugged and pointed to a miraculously undamaged generator shed twenty yards away. "Go," he said.
Holloway and Sunderland ran.
Ingram said to DeWitt. "You, too."
A bomb exploded, highlighting DeWitt's but-I'm-an-officer look.
"Get over there," bellowed Ingram.
DeWitt ran for the shed. Soon the three men rolled a gurgling barrel toward the 51 Boat. But the dock was eight feet above the boat's gunnel, making it almost impossible to hand the barrel down. Ingram was thinking of tying a line around it when thirty or so figures materialized above him. Illuminated among them by shell flashes were Whittaker, the Forester brothers, and Yardly with a bulging medical kit. They scrambled aboard. Bartholomew was among them and extended his hand. "Good to see you, Skipper."
"Welcome back, Rocky," said Ingram. "Can you figure out a way to get this fuel on board?"
"Right away." Bartholomew grabbed some heavy line, organized a work party and, soon, all nine barrels of diesel fuel were lashed amidships.
THE LAST LIEUTENANT: A Todd Ingram Novel (The Todd Ingram Series Book 1) Page 22
