by Robert Ryan
The Mersey wind cut down the estuary and swirled around the quaysides. Uli and her group stood shivering at one end of a ragged concrete pier, just along from the large ship with its newly painted grey hull. The City of Hamilton, it was called, and the entryway at the end of the gangplank swallowed column after column of men. Some were, like Uli and her companions, confused, demoralised civilians, wondering what fate was doing to them. Others were clearly German soldiers or airmen. You could spot these because they teased their captors, and laughed among themselves. They thought this was just a temporary measure, that soon their comrades would secure their release by sweeping through these islands.
Frau Menkel had overheard that a boat had broken down in the harbour of somewhere called Douglas. Others knew that Douglas was on the Isle of Man, halfway between Liverpool and Ireland, so that was their most likely destination. Uli hoped that her father would be sent there too.
Her feet began to ache from standing around, but by midday there was no sign of their packet steamer. They stacked up their luggage to make seats and took turns in sitting down, while soldiers kept a half-hearted watch over them. Soup was issued by the young captain. It was thin and lukewarm, but they all drank it gratefully, except Frau Menkel, who complained bitterly. ‘How can they win this war? They can’t even handle us properly, a bunch of women and girls.’
‘Frau Menkel.’ It was Hilda. ‘Please shut up about who will win the war. You have no more idea than I have.’
Frau Menkel shook her head, but Uli ruffled the girl’s hair. She could see that she was toughening up, no longer jumping at shadows. They were all going to have to adapt to this quickly.
‘What the bloody hell is going on here? What are these women doing cluttering up the quayside?’
It was a new officer, more senior than the captain.
‘It seems that the Rushen Castle has broken down, sir. It’s blocking the harbour at Douglas. Repairs are under way.’
‘Well, these women can’t stay here. I’ve got seven hundred Eyeties on their way from Wharf Mills. Their ship is already in the pool. Look, there must be room on that.’ He pointed at the looming hulk of the SS City of Hamilton, whose runnels were starting to bleed increasing quantities of smoke.
‘That’s mainly carrying men, sir.’
‘Well, find them a deck to themselves or a ballroom or something. Come on, come on. Our job is to get them off this island, man. Not book them a first-class passage.’
‘Sir,’ said the captain.
Within minutes they had been told to grab their cases and were being hustled towards the sagging gangplank. ‘Where is it going?’ Uli asked one of the soldiers. He shook his head, and she knew he was telling the truth.
‘I’ll tell you one thing,’ said Frau Menkel as she looked up at the towering sides of the City of Hamilton and its numerous rows of portholes. ‘This doesn’t look like any Isle of Man steam packet to me.’ For once, everyone agreed with her.
Sir John Anderson, the Home Secretary, stood and addressed the House, occasionally glancing down at the paper he held in his hand. ‘In answer to the Right Honourable Member for West Derby’s question, I do now have the number of females who have been interned under the Control of Aliens powers. It amounts to some three thousand, nine hundred and forty-eight persons. The majority are aged between sixteen and sixty, although some have chosen to take their children with them.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Three hundred of those had no choice in the matter, being pregnant.’ A ripple of laughter. ‘They will, by and large, be moved to the Isle of Man, there being no place on these islands sufficiently removed from military installations that we can relax knowing that potential enemies are in the vicinity. They will be held in their own all-female camps on the island, the majority of them in the Port Erin area, until the cessation of hostilities or until they are no longer deemed a risk to these islands. I hope that answers the Right Honourable Member’s question.’
Sixteen
IT CAME TO Ross in the middle of the night, jerking him awake. Next to him Emma stirred.
‘Wassamatter?’ she mumbled as he eased himself out of bed.
‘Nothing. Go back to sleep.’ He took a step, hesitated, turned back and kissed her temple. ‘Keep my side warm.’ She smiled and snuggled back down. Ross slipped on his dressing gown and went down the creaking, uneven stairs to the living room, shivering. The green dial of the clock glowed softly on the mantelpiece. A good two hours until dawn. He checked the blackout curtains before switching on the light and putting on the kettle. Bess ambled through from her basket and licked his knee.
‘Not now, girl. Down.’
Bess slid onto the floor, one lazy eye watching him as he arranged the mug of tea, a notepad, pencils, a German-English dictionary, an atlas and the small pile of documents that they had put aside for further consideration.
It was in the sixth file down. He could see why it had confused Emma. It was a rambling mix of English and German and much of the latter had been copied down phonetically. The man had been a Petty Officer on a submarine that had been rammed in the Channel. It was his first patrol. Before that he had worked for various government establishments in northern Germany. Including TVA at Eckernförde.
Ross picked up the atlas and scanned the Schleswig-Holstein area, and quickly located the town, a dot around thirty miles north-west of Kiel. Ross leapt up and searched the shelf next to the fireplace, cluttered with debris and half-read books. Eventually he found Draper’s cigar tube and laughed bitterly to himself. Draper and his schoolboy sense of humour. Ross resolved to call his increasingly elusive father the next day and tell him what he thought his dead spy had discovered.
On board the City of Hamilton things rapidly degenerated into chaos. There were uniformed soldiers to guard the women but the squaddies spent most of their time arguing with the ship’s regular crew, who seemed ill-disposed towards this invasion of their vessel by German flotsam. The corridors gradually filled with bags and bodies and raised voices. In the midst of the pandemonium, an irascible sergeant grabbed Uli’s arm.
‘Where’ve you come from?’
‘London,’ she said, unsure of what answer he wanted.
‘Jesus. Just what we need. You, you and you. Come with me. Bring your gear. Look lively.’
The sergeant ushered ten of them down a chipped, narrow staircase to the lower decks, where every surface vibrated and the noise of the engines grew louder. He pushed open a metal door and hustled them inside. It was a storeroom of some kind, stacked high with boxes. There was a film of greasy water on the floor, a strong smell of fuel and no porthole.
‘What’s this?’ asked Frau Menkel, turning up her nose.
The sergeant looked her up and down and said, ‘Home, missus.’
Pallets had been laid out on the floor between the boxes, each with a grubby mattress.
‘You have to be joking,’ said Frau Menkel.
‘Do I look like I’m joking?’
Uli had to admit that he didn’t.
‘Don’t touch those!’ the Frau shouted.
Hilda had been about to flop onto her mattress.
‘I’ll bet those have scabies. Don’t you think?’ She turned back to the sergeant.
‘Like I give a toss. Make the most of it—’
‘We’d like to see your commanding officer,’ said Uli.
‘Yes. So would I.’ The sergeant grinned and slammed the door shut. A silence descended and the women felt the chatter of the engines through the soles of their feet.
‘Criminals,’ said Frau Menkel.
‘How do you mean?’ asked one of the other women.
‘Those soldiers, they should be at the front line. Men their age. Yet here they are, guarding the likes of us. I’ll bet they are all troublemakers and scum of the earth.’
Uli looked round, already feeling sick from the stench. ‘We can’t stand up all day.’
‘Does anybody smoke?’ asked Frau Menkel.
‘I do,’ said a mousy
girl who began fishing in her handbag. ‘Here.’
‘No, not the cigarettes, the matches. Come on, come on.’
Frau Menkel organised the stacking of the mattresses into a pile, ripped some of the cardboard from the boxes and managed to get a blaze going on one corner of the top layer. They leapt back in shock as it crackled fiercely.
‘My God, you are going to suffocate us!’ came a protest.
Uli wedged open the door, using one of the wooden packing cases. ‘Good girl,’ said Frau Menkel, then, to the rest of them: ‘Show some courage.’
Now the smoke was rolling out into the corridor, rising to the ceiling and billowing towards the bulkheads. Uli’s eyes began to smart.
The sergeant came bowling along the deck, yelling. ‘What the bloody hell is going on—’ He skidded into the doorway, unable to believe his eyes. He pointed at Frau Menkel. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Fumigating this place.’
The sergeant disappeared and came back with a red fire extinguisher, which he banged twice on the floor and directed at the flames. Hilda quickly stepped in the way and screamed as the jet of water punched into her stomach.
‘For cryin’ out loud—’
‘Sergeant Dowler?’
They all turned to the officer at the door, a young lieutenant.
‘Put that fire out at once.’ He waved his clipboard at Hilda. ‘Stand aside, you stupid girl.’ He waited while the mattresses were reduced to a sodden and blackened mess. ‘Explanation.’
‘This bedding is unsuitable. These quarters are unacceptable.’
‘Are they? And I suppose you were hoping for something from the Hamburg-America line?’ The young officer turned to the sergeant. ‘Well?’
‘’S all we have, sir,’ muttered Dowler. ‘Didn’t expect no women.’
‘No. Still, I have just come from C deck where a number of the German male prisoners seem to have rather a nice set-up in a lounge. I suggest an exchange of quarters is in order.’
‘Sir, those men are prisoners of war.’
The lieutenant lowered his voice. ‘I said, I suggest an exchange of quarters is in order.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Dowler shuffled off.
Frau Menkel gave Uli a large wink. This, thought Uli, her spirits lifting, is going to be all about small victories.
There was the distant cry of a steam whistle. The vibration of the engines deepened and the walls seemed to creak ominously. The deck gave a lurch under them. They had cast off.
Erich pulled down his leathers and examined himself in the feeble light in the cubicle. There were specks of blood matted into his pubic hair. He quickly re-dressed and barged out of the forward head.
His face burning red, he pushed through the crowded torpedo room, past the officers’ quarters, where the lunch table was being folded away, and found Schnee, the Funker, who doubled as the medical officer.
‘Have you got a minute?’ he asked.
‘Boat balanced!’ It was the Chief from the control room. They had surfaced, looking for something decent to sink.
Schnee didn’t look up and carried on transmitting a message to BdU.
‘Schnee—’
‘You’ve got crabs.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I had my first case last night. Three this morning, another six before lunch. I think you make it a dozen all told. Forty-odd men, all sharing bunks, it only takes one to dip his prick in the wrong place the night before you leave.’
Erich sagged against the doorframe. He was sure his girl had been clean. Or at least, as sure as you could be. ‘What do I do?’
‘One, stay out of Prinz’s way. He’s furious. He will not cut short this voyage just because some of you are crawling shitbags. His words, not mine. Two, the head at the rear has been set aside for treatment. You’ll paint yourself with Kuprex. Although there isn’t that much of it on board. And I doubt if BdU will send a Condor out just because you are all lousy.’
‘I hope you get them, Schnee,’ Erich said, resisting the urge to scratch once more.
‘At this rate, I’m bound to.’ Schnee put on his headphones. ‘Which is why I always bring my own supply of Kuprex.’
The klaxon sounded. ‘Battle stations. Battle stations.’
Erich’s heart juddered as the adrenalin kicked into his bloodstream. Water gurgled loudly into the tanks. They were diving again.
Erich squeezed himself into his position at the attack computer, his throat dry. Around him was the usual cacophony of call and response as depth was marked off and readiness checked. He glanced at the time, trying to imagine what the captain was seeing through the periscope. The sun must be setting by now. He felt as detached from the outside world as he did from the rest of the war. He vaguely recalled some sort of passion about the armed struggle before he joined the Bootwaffe, but that had been stripped away to one simple prayer: Please, God, let me live through this.
Prinz yelled, his voice thick. ‘She’s running without navigation lights. Anything else on the phones?’
‘No. Not unless there is a water-layer problem.’
Prinz pulled away from the attack periscope and bent down to look at the hydrophone operator in the next compartment. Prinz knew as well as anyone that different densities in the sea played havoc with sound location. ‘Don’t give me water layers. Give me a simple answer. Is there an escort?’
‘No, Herr Kaleunt,’ came the reply, before the operator hedged his bets: ‘No sign of one.’
Prinz beckoned over the IWO. ‘Take a look.’
Becker pressed his eyes to the grubby rubber cups. ‘Troop carrier.’
‘Possibly.’
‘She’s a converted liner of some type. She could be fifteen thousand tons.’ There was a hint of greed in Becker’s voice.
‘Nationality?’ Prinz didn’t want to sink a neutral American ship and provoke an incident.
‘If she was neutral she’d be running with lights and a clear flag. She’s a legitimate target. But we’re trailing her.’
Prinz nodded. They needed to be in a good position, lying ahead of her, letting her steam by for a broadside. He turned and consulted the charts for the area, scribbling figures on a scrap of paper. He drew a line using a set square and tapped it. The navigator at his shoulder grunted his agreement. ‘Chief, give me seven and a half knots.’
The Chief telegraphed it through to the Maschinisten. U-40 could run for only thirty minutes at that kind of speed. The alternative was to surface and use the diesels, but clearly Prinz wanted to take no chances of maydays being sent. This time it would be a clean kill.
There was little to see from the two tiny portholes in the new cabin, just a monotonous vista of endless waves, blue turning to grey as the light slowly faded. Still, they had achieved the small victory that Uli had hoped for. It was two decks up from the storeroom, had a bird’s-eye maple bar at one end—without any stock, unfortunately—red velveteen banquettes around the wall and mattresses of a relatively recent vintage laid on real folding beds. The women set about making it as comfortable as possible. It reminded Uli of one of the BdM camps, all girls mucking in and giggling at the rigours of life under canvas.
A crewman came in, closed and then taped up the porthole, making sure that it was lightproof. ‘Can you tell us where we are going?’ asked Uli.
The sailor was about forty and seemed to be less aggressive, more assured than the soldiers. ‘What, has nobody told you?’
They all shook their heads.
‘Well … no, no, I can’t,’ he said. ‘Not my place, really, luv.’
‘Please,’ said Uli.
‘Yes, please,’ asked Hilda. ‘Is it the Isle of Man?’
‘Isle of Man? We passed that ages ago. No, we’re going to go up and turn left. That’s the best I can do. Look, there’ll be food in the mess in about half an hour. And there is a door opposite marked “Crew Only”.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Ignore that. It’s a washroom. Nobody else’ll use it.’
&nbs
p; They thanked him. As he left, Uli, who had been trying to remember her geography, touched his shoulder. ‘It’s Canada, isn’t it?’
The sailor hesitated. ‘You didn’t hear it from me.’
Canada. The other side of the world, she thought. The other side of a U-boat-infested Atlantic.
Erich watched Prinz and the navigator pore over the charts on the table, plotting the expected route of their quarry and using the precious few minutes of extra power to take a chance on cutting across some shallows. Prinz’s face was grim, displaying his determination to get this over with, to blood his boat properly once and for all.
‘That’s about it,’ said the Chief. ‘You’ll be left with nothing in reserve until we recharge.’
‘One more minute,’ said Prinz, just as a juddering ran through the boat, along with a high-pitched whine. The Captain threw out a hand to steady himself and said calmly, ‘Take her up. Now.’
The planesmen altered the angle of attack to lift the nose and they felt the stern snag on something. ‘Get some air in, Chief. Not too much.’
‘Blow one, three, both tanks.’ The scraping stopped as she lifted free of the sea bed or whatever outcrop was snatching at her. Erich realised that he hadn’t been breathing.
‘Let’s keep her going up slowly. I want to take a look.’
U-40 gently rose to periscope depth and Prinz grabbed the handles. The electric motors whirred and whined as the shaft rotated. ‘Can you hear her?’ he barked at the hydrophone operator.
‘No, sir, seem to have lost contact.’
‘How long ago?’
‘Just … she was there just before we hit the bottom. Faint, but she was there. It could be a temperature band at this depth.’
Prinz spun the periscope column, searching through the increasing gloom, hoping for a shadow, a silhouette, a patch of black against the still-light western sky. He stopped and went back half a degree. The outline of a ship lifted from the background. ‘Got her. Yes, that’s her. We’re well ahead of her. She’s coming up fast, though. We should get her before the last of the light goes.’
