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

by Richard Whittle

  ‘The way you do, Kapitän? How will you keep him from knowing?’

  ‘Knowing what?’

  ‘Sleeping Beauty.’

  ‘Oh my god…!’

  Theo leaps for the hatch. In the rush to get everything done he has forgotten about his own son. Legs through the hatch, he grips the ladder’s side rails with his boots and gloved hands and drops to the control room. Thankfully, Roth is not there.

  ‘Where is the Sturmbannführer, Bosun?’

  ‘In the bow cabins, Kapitän.’

  ‘I’m going aft. You have not seen me. If Roth asks for me then say I am on the bridge with the Chief.’

  When he reaches the engine room he shoves the steel door and steps over the sill. Though he has done this a thousand times the heat and noise from the twin four thousand horsepower diesels still strikes him like a wave, they drown all talk and block all thought. Through the din the engine room crew converse in shouts, half-hearing, half lip reading. To block out the noise they chew paper that they jam in their ears. Theo has done it himself. He has done time on engines like these.

  Mechanics in coveralls jump up as he passes. He nods to them. On his boat there are no salutes. Space is tight enough without arm-waving.

  He strides between the diesels, spins the locking wheel of the bulkhead door at the end of it, steps through into what should be the aft torpedo room and swings the door shut behind him. It is quieter here. Beneath the steel floor are twin shafts that drive the boat’s massive propellers, propellers that hiss as they cut through the Elbe. Like the forward torpedo room, this one has no tubes, no torpedo racks or handling gear. Instead there are eight permanent bunks. Made for Göring’s staff, he supposes.

  There is a man in the room, a young mechanic named Lewandowski. Unlike the oil-stained, time-served men, this seaman wears spotless grey coveralls. On his left arm is a twin yellow chevron, sewn neatly – Seaman First Class – therefore brighter than most.

  Lewandowski is sitting on a wooden case, reading a book. As he sees Theo he jumps up and salutes. Winces as his fingers hit overhead pipes.

  ‘At ease, Marek. In my boat you do not salute… how is he?’

  ‘Sleeping, Kapitän.’

  ‘Who else knows?’

  ‘The mechanics, Kapitän.’

  ‘Nobody else?’

  ‘The diesel mechanics and artificers. And the Chief Engineer, Kapitän!’

  He snaps out the words. A verbal salute.

  ‘Relax, man, you are not at training school.’

  ‘I await your orders, Kapitän!’

  The bunks have cot-like sides of metal tubing that resemble narrow ladders placed sideways. Despite the mechanical clutter of pipework and cables, vent ducts and lamps, to a seasoned U-boat man the room is spacious. Edible stalactites of sausage, ham, and string bags of vegetables hang from the pipework.

  ‘Does what you are doing bother you?’

  ‘It is an honour, Kapitän.’

  Theo nods. ‘I trust you to empty the slop bucket and keep it clean. You told me you have young brothers you helped care for.’

  ‘Before this war, Kapitän.’

  ‘I would like you to wash him, will you do that for me?’

  ‘Of course, Kapitän.’

  Lewandowski walks to a bunk and looks down at the sleeping boy. Then he looks at his captain. Though he says nothing Theo can see his concern. He checks the boy is breathing and hears short, shallow breaths.

  ‘Marek? What?’

  ‘It is time he woke, Kapitän. He sleeps too much, I fear he is not well. Should we wake him?’

  The heat in the boat can be unbearable. In contrast to the bundled-up child Theo travelled with in the truck, his boy now wears one of Theo’s cotton shirts, a garment so large on him it resembles a nightshirt.

  ‘No, that would be unwise. As soon as he wakes you will tell me. Come to me yourself, wherever I am. Tell nobody, understand?’

  ‘Of course, Kapitän.’

  ‘I will come when I can. It is not easy for me.’

  Lewandowski goes to salute but stops halfway. Theo returns his nod.

  Then Theo is gone, back through the noise. He is concerned that bringing Peter on board has endangered not only his son but also his crew. Perhaps, in his desire to quieten his boy he has gone too far. He used a whole sleeping tablet, not just a fragment. Twelve hours, Walter had said. Twelve hours at least.

  Back in his cabin he drops his cap on his desk and slumps on his bunk with his head in his hands. The crime he has committed will be discovered. One way or another Roth will learn about Peter and all will be lost. He sniffs the air. Remembers the side of bacon. Though it is gone its smoky, salty smell remains on his bunk and he savours it. In a few hours the only smells in the boat will be fumes from the engines and stale sweat from the crew.

  As he lies there he wonders if any of it matters. Wonders what Roth can do on a boat bound for Argentina. Buenos Aires, his orders said. In them there was no mention of the Reichsmarschall, his key staff, or the cargo they carry.

  Soon all their failed leaders would flee, the Führer amongst them. What made no sense to Theo was why Göring, the man commanding the Luftwaffe, would travel by U-boat when he could fly – if not to South America then to another neutral country, Switzerland or Portugal. The man had been an airman, a fighter pilot. Surely he would never elect to travel by submarine? Or maybe he wouldn’t have had a choice. Hadn’t Walter said the man might be taken against his will?

  Something Lange said comes back to him but a split second later it is gone. Knowing he dare not rest for more than a few minutes he stares at the grey ceiling above his bunk and considers the events of the last two days. Walter had gone back on his word, deciding time was against them, that taking Peter to Theo’s parents was no longer possible. Instead he’d promised that when they reached Hamburg they would seek out Erica’s friends. It would be easy to locate them, he’d said; he had friends and his friends had friends; they knew everything and everyone.

  It hadn’t happened. On the road into Hamburg Walter took over the driving and came straight to the dockyard. They were two days late. There was no time to drop off the boy.

  Lying on his bunk, Theo’s thoughts come together. For the first time in weeks he wonders how Walter kept himself so well informed. At Carinhall he had access to telephones, perhaps even a friend or two. But since then, apart from the SS colleague he met, he has been isolated, out of contact with others. Clearly, he has been working to a timetable only he knew about.

  Stranger still, he helped smuggle Peter into the dockyard and on to the boat. Why risk that, if Göring and his closest staff are to be there? And Roth – Walter didn’t seem surprised at the man’s presence. It is as if everything – apart from the confusion at Monowitz – had been planned. Theo recalls what Walter said about the SS, that they ran the Reich. They owned its factories and most of its wealth.

  Lange’s words about Roth – we must make sure that fat bastard comes up last – come back to him, as does their significance. Compared with Roth, Reichsmarschall Göring is massive, there is no way he would fit through hatches or bulkhead doors. The whole thing was a sham. There never was a plan to bring Göring on board or reunite him with his treasures.

  Theo rolls sideways and sits upright. He must not sleep, not with Roth on the loose. In a tin fish there are no secrets; in time the man will become adventurous and explore the boat, pass through the engine room and enter the aft tube room. And then what?

  The face he sees in his mirror has aged ten years in the last four. Days and nights without sleep have taken their toll. His eyes are deep-set. Lines on his forehead that once came only when he frowned are there always, like tram lines. He strokes his new beard, the slowly returning submariner’s badge of office. Like the hair on his head it has streaks of white. This beard, he tells himself, will be a practical beard, short and neat-trimmed. Shaving takes time and uses valuable water. A beard keeps you warm on the bridge, it breaks up fierce winds.
He leans forwards, touches his brow with his fingers. Even when he tries to smile the worry lines won’t go,.

  At training school he was immortal. He trained in the Baltic with others – mock attacks on the surface, sixty-six in all. Then attacks when submerged, sixty-six also. Is it pagan, this number? – pagan like so many things now, the crosses and runes, the magical symbols. Then there was torpedo practice, lurking beneath the surface. Not always on the ranges. Not always dummy targets.

  For those that survived, life was good.

  His mind is drifting. It is a sign of tiredness and he jumps up, returns to the control room, calls his navigator and sets a new course.

  Word travels quickly. Most of his crew assumed Norway and there are whispers as money changes hands, mainly bets lost. The new north-west course means they head for the north Atlantic, northwest because the English Channel and the German Sea are mined heavily by both sides. Sailing to the north of the Shetlands is the only way through.

  ‘Tell me our route, Kapitänleutnant…’

  Roth has come from his suite in the bow. His tone is condescending and casual. He is now the big guest, the man in the penthouse suite.

  ‘As ordered, Sturmbannführer,’ Theo says, tracing a finger across the chart. ‘We go north of the Scottish islands to avoid minefields off Orkney Isle. Here, you see? Then west to Faeroes and Iceland. From there, south into the Atlantic Sea.’

  The course he has set is more dangerous than most. The waters between Iceland and Scotland have the world’s longest minefield, laid by the British at the start of the war – eight hundred kilometres of mines that have claimed at least three U-boats. Once, when he thought it might matter, Theo worked out the British had laid around one hundred thousand mines.

  His orders are clear: stay submerged and take the long route. Staying submerged is a departure from normal, slower but safer. In the early years the Führer decreed that to get to the Atlantic killing grounds faster, all U-boats should run on the surface. The decision was madness. They lost many boats.

  When Roth sleeps again Theo will check the charts and plan a new route. By hugging the north coast of Scotland and navigating the Pentland Firth he can reach the North Atlantic in half the time, he has done it before, he knows the risks of passing though the most policed stretch of water in the world; corvettes and destroyers from the British Scapa Flow base can outrun him easily; Wellington bombers of British Coastal Command have good radar. Some have huge floodlights to seek U-boats at night. Very few of his comrades have seen these lights and lived to tell the tale.

  Tobacco is Theo’s only vice. When he was based in France many of his men would go to brothels, while he sat and smoked. Digging deep in his kitbag he finds his tobacco pipes and lays them out neatly – the English Briar Sam Spargo gave him, and the pipe with the rosewood stem. There is the one with the carved meerschaum bowl, a present from Erika, a pipe he touches fondly, flipping up the hinged silver lid that covers the bowl. It is a traditional, practical pipe, ideal for rough weather, though he has never taken it up-top, he has lost several that way. He puts the briar back in his bag. Between the pipe’s stem and bowl is a silver band engraved with the English maker’s name. Unwise to leave it around with Roth snooping.

  His tobacco pouch is almost empty. Somewhere he has a tobacco tin and he hunts for it, first in his pockets and then in his bag. He finds it, opens it, and sniffs deeply at tobacco Walter gave him. It is good stuff and he tugs at it, transfers a wad of it to his tobacco pouch. He picks strands of it between finger and thumb, packing them into the rosewood pipe and jamming them down with his finger.

  It is a ritual half-done. Half done because he must not light the tobacco, not here, the air is bad enough without polluting it more. And naked flames are dangerous; when the boat’s batteries are charging they emit explosive gases. From his locker Theo drags out a sweater, pulls it over his head, and exits his cabin to seek out his oilskins.

  He joins the Officer of the Watch and the lookouts on the bridge. The sea is calm. All are cocooned in a dense, cotton-wool fog that traps the fumes from the diesels. He comments that the air in the boat is probably fresher and he wonders, as he always wonders on days like this, whether the enemy’s radar can penetrate fog like this. Always the pessimist, he assumes that it can.

  ‘If you cannot see,’ he says to those around him, ‘You can listen. Get to know the sounds made by our engines. Only when you know that sound well will you hear other sounds, sounds that should not be there, sounds made by aircraft, ships and patrol boats. Be aware this fog is thin, it is cold and it lies low. Our warm diesel exhaust rises above it and colours the fog. Aircraft flying in the clear skies above it will watch for such changes.’

  He flicks the wheel on his lighter, looks at it, smells the wick and tries again. The First Watch Officer takes a box from his pocket, strikes a match and holds it out. A safe thing to do only in daylight, in fog such as this.

  In different conditions the smell of his tobacco smoke would be dispersed, thinned by the wind and carried away. Today it will be sucked into the air intakes and pervade the whole boat. When he returns below his crewmen, in the hope of a turn on deck, or the bridge, or the wintergarden, will attend to him like dogs wanting treats.

  Theo stands there for hours, pipe in mouth, its furnace long dead. Finally, slowly and gradually, the fog lifts. For a while it remains patchy and then, in a very short time, it is blown away southwards by a strong, icy breeze. Theo watches it leave. A retreating white wall.

  Later, when Theo is again below, he calls the navigator to his cabin.

  ‘The Firth of Pentland, Kapitän?’ the young man says, his voice a whisper. ‘Not the charted course?’

  ‘You know nothing of this, Rydel. You will tell no one. The men who make bets, you will not speak to them.’

  ‘And the Sturmbannführer?’

  ‘Has he spoken to you?’

  ‘He asks questions. While you were on the bridge. While you were smoking your pipe.’

  Dogs wanting treats.

  ‘Tell him nothing. He has no right to ask you and you have no authority to tell him. Refer him to me.’

  The man nods. Theo looks at the small brass clock on his wall. It is late afternoon.

  ‘The fog has cleared,’ he says. ‘Isn’t it time for a star fix?’

  Rydel frowns. ‘Surely it is not yet dark?’

  ‘Another hour and it will be. It is cold but dry up there. Don’t forget to take your cigarettes to the bridge.’

  The man understands and he nods again. ‘But the Pentland Firth, Kapitän?’

  ‘Later, Rydel. I will call you here. When I do, bring the appropriate charts.’

  Franz Rydel, like Marek Lewandowski, is one of the boat’s youngest. He is straight from the training flotilla in Hamburg and knows the Pentland Firth is a difficult, dangerous route. He also know the history, knows that at the start of this war U-boat commander Günther Prien stole into Scapa Flow and torpedoed the Royal Oak. The old British battleship was expendable but the 1,300 men who died in it were not, they were sailors like him. He remembers these things. Remembers, too, what his father used to say, that those who plan wars should be placed in the front line.

  In the boat the pictures are out, they are taped to bulkheads and tucked behind fittings, photographs of girlfriends and fiancés, children and wives. The men are settling in. Theo savours the moments as he walks through his vessel.

  In the aft tube room again he asks Lewandowski, ‘Does he still sleep?’

  The young man nods. One of the bunks opposite is now occupied by a bearded man who snores loudly. Beside him, fixed to a bulkhead, is a photo of a woman with short hair. Two children beside her stare suspiciously at the camera lens. Theo nods questioningly at the bunk.

  ‘Stoker Fischer, Kapitän.’

  ‘He sleeps well.’

  There is nothing more to say. Theo tips down the guard rail on the side of his boy’s bunk and sits for a while on the edge of the mattress. As h
e leaves the room he inspects the steel door. It is the tube room’s only access.

  ‘I want a door-stop on the aft tube room bulkhead door, Chief,’ Theo says later in his cabin. ‘A spot of weld on the hinges to stop the door opening fully. Enough for a slim man to enter, but no more. Can you do that?’

  Chief Engineer Lange nods. ‘I shall see to it.’

  ‘Stoker Fischer... do you know him?’

  ‘I have sailed with him. He is a man to be trusted.’

  ‘I was not aware your men would be sleeping in the aft tube room. I want all but Lewandowski out of there.’

  ‘I chose to put them there. The artificers and mechanics know about Peter. Better they sleep there than with other crewmen. There will always be at least one of my men sleeping there your boy will never be alone.’

  ‘I have dealt with that already. Lewandowski will stay with him day and night.’

  ‘I did not know that.’

  ‘Are you sure your men can be trusted? Every one of them?’

  ‘With my life, Kapitän.’

  ‘Very well. They can stay. That door hinge, Chief. See to it now.’

  Except for the dive in the Elbe and two practice dives carried out in deep water, Theo has kept the boat on the surface. He has doubled the watch on the bridge in the hope they will see other vessels and planes before they themselves are seen. Now, in the fading light, through his Zeiss glasses, Theo sees land, a dull line on the horizon. Now, on the bridge, he stands beside Chief Engineer Lange.

  ‘Scotland, Kapitän?’

  Theo nods. ‘I am told the Sturmbannführer has been up here.’

  ‘He was here when I came. Fifteen minutes ago.’

  ‘I shall try to prevent it. If he questions you, you must say you do not know where we are. Don’t try to be clever, Chief. The man may look a fool but that does not mean he is one. Did he ask questions?’

  ‘He just stood and looked. He does not like the cold.’

  Theo, about to return below, swivels on his heel and stares out at to sea. To reach the Pentland Firth they will run up the coast, submerged by day and on the surface at night. Running the Firth will save two days. Submerged, though, a deep run on motors at the pace of a snail.