Night Crossing

by Robert Ryan

  Ross followed the nurse along the corridor to what had once been one of the larger hotel suites.

  ‘He’s in here,’ she said. ‘He should have been moved to the main hospital, but, well, he likes it here and we don’t have too many patients. Ten minutes, I’m afraid, Inspector.’

  Ross smiled his thanks as she held the door open and he stepped into the room. It was bare, apart from the bed and a couple of steel cupboards, the gilded wallpaper was scratched and peeling, and the floor still showed the tack marks where the Axminster had been. The sole patient’s wheelchair had been positioned so that he could watch the harbour.

  ‘Hello, Herr Walter. Fritz.’

  The old man turned his head and Ross tried not to look too shocked at the gauntness and the yellowing of his skin. It didn’t seem fair that just five years could do this to a man. ‘I …’ There was the barest glint of recognition. ‘No, sorry, can’t place you.’

  Ross introduced himself and Walter clapped his bony hands in delight. ‘Of course. Inspector. My God, that seems a lifetime ago. All that intrigue, eh? Uncle Otto, Canaris. Did it come to anything?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, it did. In a manner of speaking,’ Ross said. ‘The link with Canaris was broken, though, quite early on.’ He didn’t add that it had cost the life of an innocent girl.

  ‘Otto and Canaris. They both hate Hitler. Mind you, I’m not sure either of them are huge supporters of democracy, not as you understand it here. But they’d be better than Adolf.’ Walter laughed and Ross heard the fluid in his lungs gurgle. ‘They don’t seem to have done much good, do they? He’s still there. Looks like we’ll have to rely on that bastard Hitler to destroy himself. Can you pass me that water, Inspector? Thank you.’

  Walter took a noisy sip and smacked his lips. ‘Thank you,’ the old man said again as he handed the glass back. ‘It’s good to see you. I’m getting a little bored of staring at ferries. Sorry about the state of me. Seem to have gone downhill.’

  ‘Nonsense. It’s good to see you, too. I’m actually here mainly about Ulrike.’

  ‘Uli? What’s she done?’

  ‘Done? Nothing. It’s what we have done to her. And you. Locking you away …’

  ‘Oh, that. She was angry at first, I think, as we all were. Furious. But the anger went. You know, for some people it has been a godsend. Some of these camps have allowed talent to bloom. At a Derby Castle concert, I heard these young men. Nissel. Lovett and … a Viennese, Brainin … my goodness, what playing.’

  Ross stepped in as Walter paused for breath, hoping that he had grasped this correctly. ‘You heard from her? You’ve heard from Uli?’

  ‘Eventually. Post awful. Only one censor for the whole island, so letters in and out took an age. And many of them ended up at the bottom—’

  ‘Where is she?’ Ross asked impatiently. ‘Where is Uli?’

  ‘She’s in Canada.’

  Ross stated at Walter as if he were mad. No women went abroad. The Home Office woman had been very clear. ‘Canada? Which Canada?’ he asked, in case he was missing something.

  ‘Which Canada?’ asked Fritz Walter, his chest heaving. ‘The one five thousand kilometres away, that’s which one.’

  As the waves broke over his head, Erich forced himself to try to ride higher in his life preserver. The gash on his head was stinging, and one eye had swollen shut. He turned to face U-40. Her bow was out of the water and the stern had dipped below the surface. Men were still struggling clear, hoping she would stay afloat a little longer. Only Prinz and the Chief were left on board now. The sky was darkening and Erich could feel his teeth chattering and his limbs going numb. He wanted to close his good eye and push the pain and the noise and the screams away, erase the memory of the mad scramble to clear the stricken submarine. He hoped he had acquitted himself well and hadn’t trodden on others in his selfish haste. He looked away from the boat. He didn’t want to see her die.

  ‘She’s turning!’ someone shouted. ‘She’s turning back to us.’

  It was the destroyer that had sliced off part of their stern, emerging from the billowing veil of rain that was falling a mere kilometre away. He had heard tales of destroyers depth-charging U-boat survivors in the water, the blast reducing their lifeless bodies to sacks of rubber.

  He turned to see Prinz, still in the tower, alone now. He was signalling frantically with the Aldis lamp. Erich read off the message: ‘—Captain U-40. Please save my men, drifting in your direction. I am sinking.’

  As he peered through the darkness at the oncoming ship, Erich realised two things: first, the crinkly shapes being dropped down the side of the destroyer were scramble nets for their rescue. Second, Captain Günther Prinz was not going to leave the stricken U-40.

  They were waiting for Inspector Cameron Ross at Euston. They were from the rubber-heel brigade, internal investigators into police corruption. They flashed their credentials and nodded towards the black Humber that had drawn up next to the platform. Ross looked around, thinking that there must have been a mistake.

  ‘What’s this?’ he asked.

  ‘You’ll see, Inspector. If I could just have your warrant card?’ The speaker was in his fifties and obviously experienced, not about to take any nonsense.

  Ross handed it over and was led over to the car. No handcuffs, at least. He removed his hat and slid into the vehicle, grabbing one of the detective’s wrists when the man tried to put a hand on his head to push him in.

  ‘Sorry, sir. Reflex.’

  They drove south, through Bloomsbury, past the devastated houses of Bernard and Guildford Streets, the jagged scorched outlines a shock again after the unbombed Isle of Man.

  The older detective offered him a Woodbine but he refused. They were crossing Waterloo Bridge now, heading towards another flattened area, the warehouses propped up by makeshift scaffolding.

  He’d made enquiries about getting Uli back. They couldn’t do anything on the island. He’d have to petition the Home Office. They made it sound like a lifetime career. At least she was alive, he thought, a small piece of happiness in an insane world.

  The destination turned out to be a dark Gothic mansion, bristling with spires and gargoyles. It was sandbagged and guarded, but there were no signs indicating its function. Ross could guess.

  His father was waiting on the first floor, in a room freshly painted military green, furnished only with a metal table and two chairs. He looked up as his son entered and indicated that he should sit. Ross remained standing.

  ‘Is this your idea of an invitation?’

  ‘Would you have come if I’d sent one?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So I had to pull some strings.’

  ‘Does it ever occur to you, father, that you can pull too many strings?’ Ross asked. ‘Get yourself in a tangle?’

  ‘I didn’t know that Uli Walter been taken abroad. I only just found out when we checked on what you were up to.’

  Ross leant forward, trying to hold his frustration in check. ‘But you knew she was in the country? Back when I asked you to find out whether she had got out of Germany?’

  The Colonel shifted in his seat. ‘I knew that there was every chance you’d make a fool of yourself with this girl. They were—are—our enemies, Cameron, something which you sometimes have trouble grasping.’

  Ross slumped back. ‘I don’t know where to begin, I really don’t. Some Germans blew me half to pieces. Some of them killed Emma. And you can talk to me about enemies? I know who our enemies are. But credit me with being able to tell the difference between those who are and those who are not on our side, for crying out loud.’

  The Colonel looked down at his hands. ‘I made some mistakes. Including keeping you two apart.’ Then his eyes flared. ‘Christ, we all made mistakes. Even Churchill, he laid some eggs at the start, I can tell you. What do you want me to say? I’m sorry.’

  Ross paced for a few minutes, letting his anger ebb. ‘Well, why am I here?’ he asked eventually.

  ‘The b
eard looks good.’

  ‘Why am I here?’ Ross repeated.

  ‘I need your help.’

  ‘You’ve got some nerve.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right. You think I’d ask if it wasn’t the only way? I have been asked to head up a new PWIS based at the London Cage. To be run jointly with the Americans.’

  ‘Forgive me if I’m not up with the latest acronyms.’

  ‘Prisoner of War Intelligence Service. It is part of CSDIC—Combined Services Detailed Interrogation Centre, before you ask.’

  ‘What’s this got to do with me?’

  There was a long pause. ‘I need an assistant.’

  ‘And you thought of me? Well, it may have escaped your notice, dad, but I have a perfectly decent job. So, thanks, but no—’

  The unfamiliar noise made him stop. He turned and looked at the Colonel’s waxy face, his wobbling lip. With a shock Ross realised that his father was crying.

  They were allowed up on deck as the destroyer steamed into Liverpool. The air was icy, but Erich enjoyed the breeze whipping against his face, stinging it into life after days below. They hadn’t been badly treated by the British, but it was good to stretch his legs and to see a port other than Lorient, even if it was the enemy’s.

  Erich marvelled at the size and range of the vessels, all sitting out in the open—corvettes and fast torpedo boats, a submarine, several destroyers, one flying a US flag, and a mass of cargo ships. He felt Becker, the IWO, slide onto the rail next to him.

  ‘They have a lot of ships here,’ said Erich.

  ‘Looks like we didn’t do a good enough job.’

  Erich smiled. ‘I think we did our best. I think the Captain did his best.’

  ‘Bloody fool,’ said Becker. ‘He shouldn’t have gone down. His place was with his men, not with that old tub of a boat.’

  ‘I suppose it’s up to you. To take his place.’

  There was a welcoming blast on the horn from a nearby warship and a few gulls took fright, circling lazily before settling back on the grey superstructure. ‘His place as what? We don’t have a boat any longer—we’ll probably be split up. Let’s just keep our head down, try and get home for Christmas.’

  Erich scratched his head. ‘Christmas is a month away.’

  The IWO shrugged. ‘Is it really? Well, next Christmas, anyway.’

  All over by the end of 1944. Well. Amen to that, thought Erich.

  Ross’s father took him to a corner pub a few streets away, where he sipped whisky shakily and Ross had a glass of mild and bitter.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Ross.

  ‘I’m losing my mind.’

  ‘Dad, please.’

  ‘Oh, not all the time. It just wanders. I can’t focus. Can’t formulate what is coming next. It’s … unpredictable. There are just times when I forget why I am here, what I am doing. Then, two or three minutes later, I’m back.’

  Ross was no expert, but it sounded like dementia of some kind. ‘Have you seen a doctor?’

  ‘Why? There is nothing they can do. And I still have work to finish.’

  ‘You can’t work like that. You have to take it easy. Retire.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I am afraid of hearing.’

  ‘Maybe it’s the truth,’ said Ross softly. ‘It has to come sometime.’

  ‘If the Yanks find out that I’m not firing on all cylinders, I’ll be off PWIS straight away. They are looking for an excuse to take it all over. If you were my assistant—’

  ‘What good would that do?’

  ‘You could step in whenever I required you. Nobody need know. They’d just think it was a blow hot-blow cold team.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous, dad.’

  ‘The war isn’t going to last for ever, Cameron. A year. Two at most. When the Second Front opens next spring, they reckon on thousands of prisoners. They’ll need me. I just want to see this through. End it like a man, not some … senile old basket case. “Good chap once, lost his marbles before the end”—that kind of thing.’

  Ross was embarrassed to see tears in his father’s eyes once more. He was frightened. The Colonel was scared of what the future held. ‘Please, son. I just need to hold on to things for a while longer. If I retire now I’ll be totally ga-ga within six months. I know it is asking a lot. I can square it with—’

  ‘No. Don’t square anything for me. I do all my own squaring from now on. This is why I didn’t want to see you. I knew I’d get sucked into one of your schemes again.’

  ‘It won’t be for long,’ the Colonel assured him. ‘The war might be over in a year. Please.’

  Ross went to the bar for refills, his mind working furiously. He did feel sorry and concerned for his father but this was also an opportunity for the man to make up for some of the damage he had done. As he sat down Ross grasped his moment with both hands. ‘OK, dad. I’ll give it a go. On one condition.’

  Twenty-Four

  THE SS PURCELL docked at Southampton on a bright December day and signalled her thanks to her escort and a greeting to her home port with three long blasts on the ship’s horn. Ross sat in the vast, echoing processing hall, where passengers had once checked in their trunks for voyages on luxury liners, but where Immigration and Combined Services officials now sat, lining up their forms and their stamps, waiting for their clients to disembark.

  As the first Canadian soldiers wobbled down the gangplank and shuffled their way into the hall, Ross slipped outside onto the quay and sat on a capstan, smoking—a new vice—marvelling at the endless stream of strapping, fresh-faced lads who had come to fight on soil far, far away from their homeland. ‘God bless the Empire,’ Churchill had said. For the first time, Ross appreciated what he meant.

  Uli was, of course, one of the last to come off. Ross had been waiting well over an hour when he saw her duck through the doorway into the watery sunlight, her hand clutching a single suitcase.

  He threw down his fifth cigarette, ground it into the stones of the quay, buttoned up his jacket and stepped forward before he hesitated. She still hadn’t seen him—perhaps she didn’t recognise him with the beard—as she stepped gingerly onto the dockside, appearing bewildered and lost. She looked as if the mischievous spirit he remembered had been caged and broken, the flame diminished. Would she want him?

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Erich Hinkel.’

  ‘Rank?’

  ‘Leutnant zur See.’

  ‘On U-40.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you have any complaints about your treatment so far?’ The man’s German was good, thought Erich.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You realise that the belongings taken from you and signed for will be returned in due course.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  The Intelligence Captain leant forward. They were in the manager’s canteen of a former carpet factory near Lancaster, requisitioned for the war, and now the focal point of the North-West Area Cage. A ‘camp’ was the final destination, Erich had learned, and it might be in the UK, although many prisoners—a significant number of them from the Bootwaffe—had been shipped to Canada. A ‘cage’ was a holding or transit centre for POWs, where they would be interrogated before being assigned a camp. The NWA Cage consisted of two large lawned areas—a football and a rugby pitch respectively, originally provided for the carpet workers’ recreation—studded with Nissen huts, one section for officers and one for other ranks, each surrounded by wire and sentry towers.

  The Intelligence Captain offered him a cigarette and Erich hesitated before he took it. He’d thought long and hard how to play this, but the mood in the Cage seemed to be one of resignation. He was berthed with a mixture of soldiers from North Africa and Italy and sailors from the merchant arm and submarines. Play the game according to the rules, they all said, and you’ll be OK. Give them just enough, no more.

  ‘What type of submarine was U-40, Leutnant?’

  ‘I am not at liberty to say.’

&
nbsp; ‘A Type VIIB, I believe. Old, too.’ He looked up from his notes and smiled. ‘Or so your colleagues tell me. You did well over the years.’ There seemed to be genuine admiration in the voice. ‘To survive, I mean. Out there. You must have had a hell of a captain.’ He glanced down at his notes. ‘Captain Prinz.’

  ‘He was.’

  ‘Did you approve of what he did?’

  Did he mean sinking Allied ships? Erich answered warily. ‘He did his duty.’

  ‘I thought going down with the ship was rather out of fashion. You can build another U-boat. Men like Prinz are not so easily replaced.’

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘Why do you think he did it?’

  ‘I can’t say.’

  ‘We’re just chatting, Erich. I’m curious. Would you like some tea?’

  ‘No thank you. I think he did it because … I think he thought the U-boat war was over.’

  ‘Hmm. And you? Did you think that?’

  Sunderlands, Liberators, the Mark 24 mine—actually a homing torpedo—Hedgehog, Squid, HF-DF, what the Allies called huff-duff, for detecting the U-boats’ signals, MACs—cargo ships with short-take-off ramps for planes—all the things Erich had discovered since the sinking suggested that Prinz had been right. ‘I am not sure.’

  ‘You must have trained on Heimsiche Gewässer.’ The code known as Home Waters, or Hydra to the Germans, Dolphin to the British and, as the Intelligence Officer knew, well and truly broken.

  ‘Yes.’

  The expression on the IO’s face didn’t change. He said: ‘Well, that’s all for now, Erich. Messing is in the large tent over by the football posts. Your particular sitting is on the board outside. We’ll speak again.’

  Erich had been dismissed, but he stayed where he was and asked: ‘Sir—I wondered. Is there any way I can get a letter to someone in England?’