The Man Who Played Trains: The gripping new thriller from the author of Playpits Park

by Richard Whittle

  Spargo stood up, stretched his legs, walked to the door and stared out. The night was black, there was nothing to see.

  ‘I don’t understand why you are telling me this. Tell me about the translator, Lewis. What was he afraid of?’

  ‘I did not know Lewis. I know nothing about him.’

  ‘Someone who knew him said he was scared.’

  ‘Is that so? As I said, I did not know the man. It was unfortunate for him he encountered Ian Letchie.’

  ‘Lewis knew what it he was translating. He must have known Volker. It’s my belief he was a member of Volker’s crew.’

  Bar, cocooned in the sleeping bag, had slumped down. Spargo’s words alerted him and he sat upright again.

  ‘Why do you think that? Did you meet with him before he died?’

  Spargo hesitated; he had said too much; at least he’d had the sense not to mention Rydel.

  ‘I didn’t meet him. Letchie got to him first.’

  ‘You are saying this man was in the Kriegsmarine? That he served with Theodor? Who told you this?’

  ‘It’s something I’ve learnt.’

  ‘You mean like you learnt your two-times-table? This man Lewis, what is his first name?’

  ‘Mark.’

  ‘So, Mark Lewis. That is not a name I would have expected to have found in our military.’ He laughed at his words.

  ‘He must have changed his name.’

  ‘Of course he changed his name. And because of that you cannot possibly have discovered Mark Lewis was a member of the boat’s crew simply by reading Theodor’s diaries because that name would not have been there. So where did you learn about Mr Lewis, John Spargo? Who have you spoken to?’

  CHAPTER

  FORTY-ONE

  KAPITÄNLEUTNANT VOLKER’S BOAT runs astern, into black water that stinks of spilled oil. There is no brass band on the quayside like in the old days and no women to throw flowers. A lone figure watches from the shadows, his hands in his pockets and his collar pulled high. As the vessel starts to turn he holds a hand up high, not a Nazi salute but a wave. A real wave, from Walter.

  The wave goes unseen. Several hours ago, when both men parted, Walter gave no hint he would stay. Once the rubber-sealed crates had been transferred from the truck to the boat, Theo had walked away from him, angered he had been lied to yet again: Walter wasn’t accompanying Theo on the voyage, it was never his intention. Nor was there any sign of Göring – not that Theo ever believed there would be.

  After all the lies it came as a surprise to Theo that U-1500 actually existed, it was moored ready and waiting in the U-boat pens at Hamburg. That it was one of the only vessels undamaged by bombs was little short of miraculous.

  Theo, on the boat’s bridge, watches and listens. He has much on his mind. His new command is one of the Reich’s biggest and newest. It is certainly one of the Reich’s most peculiar.

  ‘Forward now! Don’t hit the jetty. Don’t scratch my shiny new paint…’

  Those on the bridge smile at the irony. Most of them know Volker, know that the state of the U-boat’s paintwork is the last thing on his mind. Recent bombing raids have left wrecks in the Elbe. Navigating the river at night is hazardous, even more so at dusk.

  The boat stops. Eases forwards. Starts a long, slow turn.

  Standing beside Theo, the Chief Engineer relays his captain’s words. His voice emerges from a speaking tube far below and men in dark coveralls obey him. The boat’s twin diesels hesitate and then pick up speed. The throbbing of exhausts bounces back from the concrete quay and beats on the boat’s steelwork. Makes eardrums pop. For a while the boat hangs in mid-channel. Its great bulk heels to one side like a wallowing whale and then straightens up gradually, increasing speed slowly.

  Wallowing whale to sleek shark.

  The exhaust smoke, thick and black, thins suddenly and the Chief Engineer peers through it, down to the deck to where the forward gun should be. Only its mountings are visible’ in place of a 105mm cannon there is a neat ring of bolt holes.

  Volker’s boat is no shark. It is a fish without teeth.

  ‘I do not understand, Kapitän.’

  The Chief’s breath hits the cold and it glows, lit from below by red lights. He stares questioningly at his captain. Not only is there no forward gun, the platform behind them – the high deck behind the bridge that they call the wintergarden – is empty except for a lookout leaning on its handrail. Its deck, too, has bolt-holes: the anti-aircraft gun that should be there is gone. The vessel is naked and vulnerable.

  ‘What don’t you understand, Chief?’

  ‘We have no weapons. I am told the bow and aft torpedo tubes have been removed. I’m told Klaus has gone. And Bruno.’

  ‘The weapons were not removed, they were never there. This boat was never meant to have armaments.’

  The Chief Engineer, Leutnant Paul Lange, arrived days ago. Theo knows him, he is a good man. Not knowing when Theo would arrive, Lang did his work for him. He inspected the vessel, ran up the engines and checked the boat’s systems.

  ‘The changes in the forward torpedo room, Kapitän… the racks have been replaced by cabins. Who for?’

  ‘For nobody Chief, not now. Roth tells me he has billeted himself there. That doesn’t trouble me, he is well out of the way.’

  ‘And the crates, Kapitän?’

  Theo touches a finger to his lips. ‘Precious cargo, Chief – not another word – even steel walls have ears…’

  Theo stands thoughtfully. Lange has good right to be worried. Not only does his boat have no armaments, it is also undermanned. Whoever was responsible for assigning the boat’s crew foolishly omitted the gunners, the torpedo men and the weapons artificers – crewmen who, when not needed for their special skills, performed other, vital tasks. Equally worrying is that the command structure is compromised. The designated Second Leutnant – the boat’s Number One, Theo’s deputy captain – did not turn up. Paul Lange will now do two jobs, it is the reason he is on the bridge and not with his engines.

  Theo lifts the flap of the speaking tube, stoops and speaks into it.

  ‘Searchlight to tower...’

  Lange frowns. ‘The searchlight, Captain?

  ‘The searchlight, Chief. There is debris in the Elbe. I’m told there are timbers the size of small trucks.’

  He turns to his Watch Officer. His men are scanning the sky through night glasses, heavy binoculars with large lenses, which gather more light.

  ‘Get them to look west for Mosquitos flown by mad British pilots. They hug the land to avoid the guns, they come out of nowhere. When they bring the light use it sparingly, look for river debris. If we hit anything I’ll have your head…’

  Above them, on the main mast, is the mesh net of the Hohentwiel, the new radar system. It is switched off. His telegraphist, fresh from college, tells him the system is flawed, it gives out a signal the enemy can detect. There are, Theo tells himself, some advantages in having young crewmen.

  For more than an hour Theo stands with Lange and the Watch Officer, using the light in brief flashes, scanning the dark water for flotsam. He knows the risks he is taking; the light is powerful and aircraft approaching across the flat northlands might see it; his boat is vulnerable here because the water is too shallow to dive.

  The river is wide; in peacetime the small ports on its distant banks would show lights but in blackout there is nothing, no sign of life. To the south-west the low cloud is lit from beneath by bright flashes; though they have seen no bombers they know it is Hamburg again. There cannot be much left of the city to bomb.

  ‘Hamburg, Chief?’

  Lange turns. In the far distance a spatter of white light cuts the horizon. A chain of tracer glows orange in air thick with dust. The chief grunts, and spits. Hamburg is his town.

  ‘They are bastards!’

  Theo watches in silence. ‘Bombs rather than guns, Chief. An air raid, not an invasion. That, I suppose, is something.’

  Theo grips h
andrails, swings into the ladderway and descends to the control room. The rope soles of his boots hit the deck plates soundlessly and he makes his way forward, past his cabin and the galley, the cold store and the latrines. This is home – his only home – a claustrophobic hell with no personal space. Today it is worse; crewmen are everywhere, they have lifted floor plates and are stowing equipment, lowering crates and cans to impossible places. Provisions yet to be stored overflow from men’s bunks, from the galley, the radio room and the WC.

  ‘Think, man!’ Theo snaps. ‘Show them, Bosun! If you put powdered egg under the beans then we get no egg until the beans are used up. There are three sides of bacon stacked on my bunk, I want them moved. They stink.’

  Many times has he seen this confusion; he has made these mistakes himself, presided over bad stowage that left cabbages festering deep beneath canned food, forgotten by cooks and impossible to move. Overseeing stowage is not his job, but with so many green crewmen the responsibility lies with the old hands.

  Back in his cabin he takes a key from his pocket, unlocks the ship’s safe and reads his sealed orders for the third time. Weeks ago he mentioned Argentina to Walter but Walter didn’t confirm it. These papers do.

  The boat has been prepared for such a great distance. Its fuel tanks contain two hundred tonnes of oil, fuel enough for eleven thousand kilometres and his boat is well able to make the trip, it is a true sea monster, an ocean-going Type Nine boat, one of the Reich’s biggest.

  The great distance doesn’t worry him. Others have crossed the Atlantic boats like these – men like Korvettenkapitän Hardegen in U-123. In four months their boats sunk a million tons of shipping along the East coast of the United States. Hardegen told him the ships there were lit up as if it were Christmas. Operation Drumbeat, they called it.

  But that was in ‘forty-one. Since then things have changed.

  Theo nods to himself. He will get there and back easily – though the orders don’t mention a return trip. He wonders how his crew will take that bit of news when he tells them.

  Back in the control room he sees Roth… Ludwig Roth. The man is difficult to miss. Theo’s crewmen wear dark cotton coveralls, while Roth wears submariner’s black leather – a practical outfit when worn by his men, but on Roth’s obese frame the leather is tight and it bulges. Looks fetishist. Pornographic, even. Roth is a big man. He has a beer gut, a rare thing these days.

  So what is this high-booted bastard, Theo wonders, Gestapo? He guesses the man is SS, one of Walter’s mob, though one spook is much like another. He gives the man a nod of acknowledgement but does not speak. Doesn’t want to be seen fraternising with the enemy.

  Waiting for him in his cabin is a small French cafetiere and a white china cup and saucer. The new cooks have learned fast and he wonders who told them his likes and dislikes. Rather than sit in his desk chair he drops onto his bunk. A ten-minute break, if he’s lucky.

  One line in Theo’s orders is typed in red: DO NOT ENGAGE WITH THE ENEMY. When he first read it he smiled. He has his sidearm – his Mauser pistol – locked in a drawer in his cabin. In the boat’s small armoury are rifles and sub-machine guns, to be used by his seamen in case of close combat. The only other things that could possibly resemble armaments are flare pistols in the control room but apart from these there is absolutely nothing. Do not engage with the enemy. He smiles as he reads it again.

  The prospect of a quiet voyage has been shattered by Roth. Theo has fallen foul of the man already, disobeying him by opening the sealed orders in his absence. For that he had been sworn at and threatened.

  The bosun taps on his door and then opens it wide.

  ‘Kapitän… pardon… there is a padlock and chain on the door to the bow tube room, I have spoken to Herr Roth and he refuses to remove it. He says the space belongs to him.’

  Without speaking Theo stands and follows the man. The forward torpedo room – the bow tube room – is entered through a watertight door with a steel wheel in its centre, a wheel that seals and unseals it. Somebody, presumably Roth, has passed a chain through the wheel and padlocked it in place.

  ‘The chain is ours,’ the bosun says. ‘He must have brought the padlock with him.’

  Still Theo says nothing. He returns to the control room and finds Roth there, still leaning against the conning tower ladder. Theo stops, facing him.

  ‘There is a lock and chain on the forward torpedo room door. I understand you put it there. I demand you remove it.’

  Roth lifts his chin high. There is a squeak of new leather from the coat. He is shorter than Theo but somehow the gesture is effective in making him seem tall.

  ‘My rank is Sturmbannführer, Kapitänleutnant Volker. You will use it when you address me.’

  Sturmbannführer… the man is an SS major. In the U-boat pens in Hamburg Walter had introduced Roth as the officer who would be taking his place. Surprised and annoyed, Theo had protested and then walked away, hadn’t spoken to Walter again.

  ‘I insist you remove the padlock, Sturmbannführer. If you do not then I shall cut the chain.’

  ‘I have sealed the compartment, Kapitänleutnant. There are no torpedoes, so therefore your men do not need access. I understand that you know what we are carrying. I am here to see that the cargo stays safe.’

  ‘You are wrong. My crewmen need access. Again, I insist you unchain the door.’

  Roth stands with folded arms. Theo looks away from him and snaps out an order. The diesels fade to a dull rumble and the boat loses way. Roth is caught off guard by the change of speed and grabs at the conning tower ladder.

  ‘What is this? Why have the engines stopped?’

  Theo stands with his arms folded. ‘I am unable to proceed, Sturmbannführer. Your actions prevent my Chief Engineer inspecting the hydroplane motors and the pumps in the forward torpedo room. I intend to signal my intention to return to Hamburg.’ He turns and calls loudly: ‘Telegraphist!’

  Roth’s neck and head seem to merge into one. A flush of deep purple spreads upwards from under his leathers. He is wearing a tie and starched collar and they seem to be choking him. His voice comes in a hiss.

  ‘You cannot break wireless silence! You will not disobey me!’

  There is another gun on board, Theo can see the bulge under Roth’s arm. Neither man moves. Theo’s voice drops to a whisper, deliberate and sharp.

  ‘You leave me no choice, Sturmbannführer. The safety of this vessel is my responsibility. The safety of what we are carrying is yours – though you may be aware I accompanied part of the cargo though Germany and Poland long before you – ’

  Theo stops. He is saying things he should not say. But it is not a problem. Roth is more concerned with protocol and politics.

  ‘Poland? Is there such a place? Do you mean Greater Germany, Kapitänleutnant?’

  Theo’s heart sinks. An hour into the voyage, and then this. He cannot risk conflict. To avoid further argument he mounts the ladder and climbs to the bridge. The Chief Engineer is there. The first Watch Officer has moved to the wintergarden, where he stands with a lookout. All three peer through binoculars, searching the sky.

  In better days they would have left Hamburg with an escort of converted trawlers bristling with guns. Now there is no spare fuel for such vessels and those that do manage to sail are crewed by old men and boys. Theo looks east towards the first rays of sun, a pre-dawn glow through a dark smoky sky. His breath seeps up from inside his high collar like steam from a heater. He calls to Lange.

  ‘Clear day, Chief!’

  He moves closer to him and talks quietly. When he returns below, Roth is there, watching and listening, leaning against pipes with his arms folded tight. Does he intend to stand there for the whole voyage, the best part of three months?

  Theo checks the time. He knows what is about to happen, knows what the Chief will do.

  An alarm bell jangles. From the speaking tube comes a shriek: ‘Aircraft one-ninety!’ Then a shout, from above: ‘Flood! Flood! Flood
!’

  With gloved hands sliding on the ladder’s smooth sides, men drop from the tower like abseiling raiders. Conning tower hatches thump down and are clamped in place.

  The men around Theo stay calm. Even the new men are well-drilled, they spin hand-wheels and check gauges. Seamen run back and forth, closing vents and valves, reporting their actions with short sharp shouts. In the engine room the diesels are shut down – but in error they stay running after the air vents have closed and they suck air from the boat. Ears pop as the pressure drops. Crewmen clamp their hands over their ears and a cook in the galley screams with pain.

  Chief Engineer Lange is there and he watches the crew, the controls and the instruments. He shouts orders and men change positions, turn hand wheels, work on the valves again. From the bow comes the rumble of compressed air as it blows out the ballast tanks. The boat lurches, tilts violently. Lange shouts again:

  ‘She’s unbalanced! All non-essential hands forward!’

  Theo stands beside the ladder and watches, keeping his balance by gripping its rungs. Despite having a new crew, unfamiliar with the boat, they work well together. Lange, in his double role, holds down a mike button and repeats the order. Crewmen scramble through the boat, hauling themselves up now-sloping gangways.

  The Elbe is shallow here. As the stern of the boat ploughs through thick mud the crewmen stumble and reach for support. Rudders and screws plough the river’s dredged channel. The boat stops dead.

  Roth is caught unawares and falls awkwardly. Theo grabs him, hauls him to his feet, brushes him down, picks up his spectacles and hands them to him. As the periscope lifts from the floor he abandons the man, straddles the scope and swivels it full-circle. Though he cannot see it, he knows that a broad slick of churned mud is being spread by the current – a clear marker in the river that can be seen from the air. Had a real enemy plane been near the Elbe, its crew would have seen the mud slick, they would know there was a boat on the bottom.

  Theo turns his attention to Roth. Clearly, the man is shocked.