by Robert Ryan
‘Who?’
‘A German girl who came over before the war. My fiancée.’ Former fiancée, an inner voice corrected him.
‘Do you have an address?’
‘No. London, perhaps,’ said Erich, realising how hopeless that sounded.
‘I’m sorry, you’ll need more than that. Especially if she was a German national—they’ve been well and truly scattered during the past few years. Maybe when it’s all over.’
Erich’s heart sank. He so wanted Uli to see those letters, especially now they were both in the same country. As he rose he managed to mutter: ‘Yes. Of course. Thank you.’
After he had gone the Intelligence Officer wrote on the file confirming that Erich Hinkel was a U-boat cipher clerk, and therefore potentially useful, and stamped across the bottom of the file TRIBI: To Remain in British Isles.
One of the ferries had struck a mine. Fritz Walter could tell by the way it was listing and the flotilla of tugs fussing around it. It was limping back into Douglas, taking in water, but it was going to make it. Walter had seen it two or three times from his viewpoint in the Falcon Cliff Hotel. He had also, over the past few months, watched the men march out of Onchen and Hutchinson camps, heading back to the mainland. He would have liked to be with them, but something inside him had given up, poisoning his liver and pancreas.
The nurse came in with some broth, which he sipped briefly, then left the remainder to go cold. It was close to lights out when the Sister and an auxiliary nurse came in and started to wheel him away from the window.
‘I quite like to watch the Christmas lights come on,’ Walter protested. For the first time in years, there were signs of the festive season strung around the town, a tentative step towards normality. It was oddly heartwarming that a few coloured bulbs could convey such hope and optimism.
‘We’ve got to get you close to the wall,’ replied the Sister.
The telephone trolley was wheeled in and plugged into the socket, and all three watched it while the clock edged round to five. The brittle sound made them jump, and Sister picked up on the second ring.
‘Hello. HELLO. Yes. He’s here. I’ll put him on now. Fritz,’ she added rather redundantly, ‘it’s for you.’
Walter put the Bakelite shell to his ear. ‘Yes?’
‘Father?’ the voice was small and distant.
‘Hello?’
‘Daddy. It’s me. Uli.’
‘Uli.’ His words dried up immediately, jammed in his throat. ‘Uli.’
‘Merry Christmas, daddy.’
‘Uli. Where are you?’
‘You remember Inspector Ross? The Scottish detective? He found out where I was and had me brought back from Canada. It was just wonderful of him. I’m ever so grateful.’ Walter could tell from her voice that Ross was probably in the room with her; she seemed to be playing it up for someone. ‘So now I’m in London. I’m back in London.’
‘Oh.’ He could taste the salt of his tears now, gathering at the corners of his mouth. ‘How long have you been there?’
‘A few days. A week, perhaps. But I can’t come and see you. Something about there being too many hardliners on the island. They still don’t trust me. Us. The Inspector is trying his best to get me clearance, but … you know how slow they are.’
‘I want to see you,’ he whispered. All the times he had wished for this, to hear his daughter’s lovely soft voice, to speak to her again, and now all he could manage were half-sentences. ‘Please.’
‘As soon as I can. You know that. How are you?’
‘Oh, Uli,’ Walter sobbed.
He could hear her crying too, a strange sound echoing down the line. There was a sniff as she pulled herself together. ‘Listen. I have something for you,’ she said. ‘A Christmas present. Keep the receiver to your ear.’
He lay there, propped up in the bed, straining to hear what was happening at the other end.
Then Uli was back. ‘Ready?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
The sound was thin and weak, the bass notes lost in the carbon particles of the earpiece, but the first few bars of bow on strings filled his heart with pleasure. He could just make out an accompanist in the background. He recognised it, of course. Handel’s Sonata for Violin and Piano in F major, the piece his daughter had been meant to play at the recital before her accident, almost a decade ago. Fritz Walter lay back against the pillow, cradling the receiver, crying as silently as he could, so that he could catch every beautiful note his Ulrike played.
Twenty-Five
ROME: EARLY MARCH 1944
SS-Obersturmführer Axel Schuller, formerly a mere Anwärter of the Berlin Ordnungspolizei, watched with pride as the 156 men of the 11th Company of the 3rd Battalion of the SS-Polizei Regiment ‘Bozen’ marched through the streets of Rome, turned along the tiny Via Rasella, and began their final approach to the Macau barracks.
Locals watched with awe, as well they might, marvelling at this well-oiled, battle-seasoned machine. Schuller was pleased with their actions this morning. They had successfully cleared out a whole section of the Trastevere district, where anti-German propaganda had been produced and, he was certain, sabotage against the Reich was plotted.
It had been an early-morning raid, as usual, and the dozens of suspects and hangers-on were now heading for the cells, while his men looked forward to a rest. It was time for some leave. Since Berlin, Schuller had served in France, Poland, Czechoslovakia and then Italy for the past two years, in each place waging a brutal war against partisans. He needed a break from the gruelling work to recharge himself.
He stepped aside as a road sweeper squeezed along the pavement, his heavy broom brushing the dust down towards the main street. He could see his men having to swerve around the man’s cart, carelessly parked in the road. He thought of admonishing the old street-sweep, but thought better of it.
A rest from the constant punishment-and-prevention actions would be very welcome. However, as SS-Obersturmbannführer Herbert Kappler, his commanding officer, said: if they didn’t do this vital work, who would? The Italians? Spineless turncoats. Their secret capitulation, the way the Italian soldiers had discarded their uniforms and hidden their weapons once Mussolini had been captured by the Resistance, was despicable. Even Benito had needed the Germans to bail him out—the rescue by SS-Standartenführer Otto Skorzeny and his glider force of the hapless Duce from the mountains had become the stuff of SS legend. What a man Skorzeny was.
Schuller recognised that, although he might not yet be a Skorzeny, he was a long way from his days as a callow young Anwärter in Berlin. He wondered if he could be transferred to Skorzeny’s SS-Kommando force, the one that took its assignments directly from the Führer. Kidnapping, sabotage, assassination and mayhem, that was its brief. Could you apply to join such an illustrious band, or were you merely chosen, recommended by a commanding officer? He’d have a word with Kappler.
Schuller felt a sudden flash of irritation about the refuse cart blocking his way. He turned and walked down the slope to where the sweeper seemed to have disappeared. He would box his ears. Everyone knew this was the route to the barracks.
He reached the corner and scanned the street, looking for the shabby little man. He was nowhere to be seen. Then he realised: everyone knew this was the route to the barracks.
Axel Schuller dived to the ground as the cart detonated. He felt the heat of the explosion wash over him as the shock wave buffeted him. The men of the 11th Company of the 3rd Battalion of the SS-Polizei Regiment ‘Bozen’ were flung in the air like broken dolls, and Schuller heard the rain of debris and flesh falling all around him. Even as he looked up at the unspeakable horror filling the Via Rasella, he knew that someone was going to have to pay for this outrage.
Twenty-Six
MARCH–JUNE 1944
The house had once been the home of a minor baronet, but, with his servants mostly conscripted, the owner had taken to living at his London residence and Stanhope House had been taken over by t
he MOD. Located not far from the Newmarket racecourse, it was a splendid Italianate structure, designed by a Venetian who had died before he could make the journey to see what the English had made of his post-Palladian plans. It was surrounded by fine formal gardens, much of which had survived the usual fate of being turned over to growing string beans or onions.
However, the adjoining deer park had been cleared of trees and animals. These had been replaced by huts, a canteen, a chapel, stores, a kitchen, machine-gun posts, latrines and pillboxes, all put in place along with sodium lamps and the double barbed-wire row that now surrounded the area. Dogs prowled between the fences and searchlights swept much of the perimeter at night. The guards and their superiors were billeted in the house—the former in the warren of basements that had once been the kitchens and wine cellars, the latter in the elegant, light bedrooms with views over the grounds, or in the Dower House, a detached property tucked away to the north of the main house and shielded from the prisoners by a copse of trees. The first floor of the main building also housed interrogation rooms, where each interview was meticulously recorded, either by stenographer or microphone, and the filing centre, which consisted of yards of metal cabinets.
Stanhope House was now Camp 203, just one of the six hundred makeshift encampments built to house the thousands of captured Germans expected to land in the country after the Second Front was opened. Those in Camp 203 had been interrogated and were either awaiting further investigation or were not deemed any real threat. The British were careful to separate the ranks, and the sixteen huts in Compound Alpha that held the officers were more comfortable and better heated than those of their junior comrades.
When Erich finally arrived at his designated camp, after months of being shunted from Cage to Cage, there were 162 officers and 200 enlisted men, culled from all areas of the services. He was one of the few U-boat men, most of them having been sent to Scotland or shipped across to Canada. There were several Luftwaffe officers, who had been debriefed at Cockfosters or the London Cage, some sailors, and an increasing number of Wehrmacht men who had been captured in the battle for Italy.
Erich was assigned to Hut Fourteen, with a group of the Wehrmacht, several of whom were not Germans—there was one from Alsace, two Hungarians and a Romanian. He was welcomed into the hut as a fallen hero and briefed by Werner Dietrich, a young Leutnant from Bonn.
As Erich stowed his meagre belongings in the locker next to a double-decked bed, each level consisting of a thin mattress on top of rough-hewn planks, Dietrich kept up a barrage of information: ‘The thing is, we are on the same rations as the British soldiers. Which means—we get better fed than the locals! They don’t like that, of course. We get almost half a kilo of meat a week, bread, margarine—no butter—vegetables, cheese, cake, jam, tea. Take my advice, learn to like the tea. The coffee is rubbish.’
Erich turned and examined the lad. He was probably the same age as Erich, but he looked younger. ‘What is there to be so cheerful about?’
Dietrich shrugged. ‘What’s so bad?’ He lowered his voice. ‘You’d rather be back under the sea? Well, I never want to see Italy again. I tell you, we’re better off here.’ Dietrich went off and fetched some biscuits and offered Erich one. They tasted of chestnut flour. ‘Do you play football?’
‘A little.’
‘There are matches every weekend. Five a side, usually. Each hut puts up a team. We’ll see later how useful you are. There are lectures, we have a card school, there is a vegetable garden, and they say we will be able to eat what we grow.’
Erich looked at the little groups huddled around the two tables, playing cards or chess. ‘What about work, something more constructive?’
‘Well,’ said Dietrich, spilling crumbs down his overalls. ‘Under the Geneva Convention, the British can’t make officers work. Other ranks form construction teams sometimes—they are starting to repair the worst of the bomb damage round here. They pay them four shillings a week.’
‘So no work for the officers?’
‘Some of us are repairing the tennis courts over the back. We’ll be able to use them when they are done. Seems strange, we are trying to repair the hole left by one of our own bombs.’ Dietrich laughed and Erich had an inkling that the lad was going to be annoying, one of the mouthy types you dreaded encountering on a submarine, where there was no escape.
‘Do you want me to introduce you around? Major Achillin in Hut Ten is the senior officer. Then there is—’
‘No, thanks. I’m tired after the journey here. Twenty-odd hours on a train. Fifteen to a compartment. I’m going to have a nap.’
‘Oh. Right. Well, if there’s anything—’
‘Yes. Thanks, Werner. See you later.’
Erich lay down on the bottom bunk and tried to get comfortable. He closed his eyes, blanking out the noise of gossip, laughter and arguments from his new companions. It wasn’t difficult. He’d been doing it for the best part of five years. Submarines were perfect training for a camp hut like this, he thought. Within five minutes, he was asleep.
‘He was lying.’ Uli’s voice was flat, but full of conviction. ‘I would say absolutely. This one.’ She tapped the photographs in front of her. ‘Number four was the impostor.’
‘Thank you, Ulrike. Can you excuse us for a minute?’
Uli scraped her chair back, smoothed down her slacks—if Ross hadn’t known they were made from dyed blackout material, he’d never have guessed—and left the Colonel’s spartan office on the first floor of the mansion that had become the London Cage. The old man looked at his son. ‘It is remarkable, I will grant you that.’
Ross had arranged for Uli to demonstrate her powers of perception to his sceptical father. He had insisted that the only way he would join the Colonel in PWIS was if Uli was brought back to England to become his assistant.
When the Colonel had objected, he had also explained in detail about her Duchenne gift. Ross senior had simply not believed it. Now, after several tests where four people told their life story—one of them an actor faking it as best he could—he was beginning to think that there was something in it.
‘Look, Cameron, it is something special, but it is also a very blunt instrument.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning that she could tell me which one was lying. But not why.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, dad. I said she could detect lies, not read minds.’
‘Well, next time try and get me one of those,’ he huffed. ‘My other concern is that she’s a woman.’
‘I had noticed.’
‘Too bloody much if you ask me. If she’d been a sixty-year-old crone with this gift, would you have dragged her back across the Atlantic? There’s no need to answer that.’
No, thought Ross, but it wasn’t like the Colonel suspected. Ever since he had met her at Southampton and she had hugged him—the most demonstrative she had been so far—they’d both realised that they had a lot to find out about each other.
‘What I mean,’ continued his father, ‘is that she upsets the dynamic. With the prisoners. Even if she does wear trousers.’
‘Can’t she be hidden?’
The Colonel scratched his head. ‘It’s a thought. We could rig up spyholes. Or that special glass, I suppose. Transparent one way only. That’s an idea. And I know what she will be perfect for.’
‘What?’
‘I can’t let her loose on intelligence, work. Never hear the end of it from the Yanks.’
‘Why?’
‘Using a German national.’
Ross didn’t offer the thought that the Yanks would use any nationality they thought could help them. ‘Dad, when will you stop thinking of her as just another German national?’
‘What should I start thinking of her as, eh? The future Mrs Ross?’
He felt himself redden. ‘No,’ he lied.
‘Look, one thing the Yanks are keen on these days is war crimes. They want PWIS to report to this new subsidiary.’ He searched until he fo
und the document he needed and slipped on his reading glasses. ‘Joint Allied War Crimes Investigation Unit. JACI for short, apparently. They are compiling lists of cases pending future prosecutions. I would imagine your girl would be very useful during those kinds of cross-examinations. Tucked out of the way, of course.’
Ross stood up, smelling victory, a rare sensation where the old bugger was concerned. ‘She’s in, then?’
‘I suppose so. I’ll find some way of giving her official status. I’ve got no choice, have I? Bloody hell, Cameron, I hope she’s worth it.’
Sergeant Joe Pantole of VI Corps of the US 5th Army Group stirred as the sun came up over Rome. He was stiff, having bedded down on a pavement, and hung-over from all the red wine that the locals had forced on him. Despite his name, and a grandfather from Puglia, he spoke no Italian, and had hardly followed what the excited people had jabbered at him. But it had been late and, after the long slog up through Italy, and especially after the desperate rush through the Alban Hills, he and his comrades were dog-tired, ready to sleep where they fell.
An M4 tank started up across the road, and there was cursing from those still dozing on and around it. The tank crew set about resecuring the sandbags that were roped to the sides in an attempt to compensate for armour that didn’t stand a chance against the Germans’ 88s. Pantole sat up, lit a cigarette and broke wind loudly.
‘Hey, sarge. Go and do that somewhere else, willya?’
Pantole stood up and stretched. ‘Fuck you, McCabe.’
‘You think we’ll get to rest up here, sarge?’
Pantole smiled. The Germans had pulled out of Rome, but they would be regrouping to the north. There were still a lot of mountains and strongholds to slog through, plenty of smaller-scale Monte Cassinos to hold them up, scores of bridges for the Krauts to blow. The Allies were only halfway up the boot of Italy, even if Rome was the big prize. Such a prize that the US commander of the 5th Army had suggested that they shoot any Brits who made it into the city before they did. None of them had. Pantole agreed with what Patton said about the Limeys—the men were as brave as they came, but the officers seemed to lack any get-up-and-go-and-get-’em.
