The Passenger

by F. R. Tallis

  TWO WEEKS LATER

  Whenever he was alone, memories flooded into his mind. They were not ordinary memories, but vivid and cinematic: collecting his film rolls together and stuffing them into a waterproof bag, joining the other men beneath the conning tower, pushing, shoving, wondering whether a shell would hit U-330 before he was able to get out, climbing up to the bridge, Lorenz’s exhortation—‘Don’t be a fool! Worry about saving yourself—not your photographs!’—running while bullets whistled through the air and rang against metal. He squeezed the flesh of his forearm until the pain was intense and the mental pictures faded.

  It was a bright, clear morning, and Pullman was sitting at a window seat in a coffee house near the ministry. Traffic intermittently obscured the shop fronts on the others side of the road. One of them—Cohen & Sons—had been boarded up. He focused on the gold lettering but it was not enough to keep the past at bay. The memories were more real than the passing cars. Once again he was in the freezing water. Although his eyes were registering Cohen & Sons, he was actually watching U-330 moving away, and when he inhaled, he couldn’t smell coffee anymore, but diesel fumes. He was floating in the middle of a ring of familiar faces: Wessel, Sauer, Juhl, Brandt. They were all dead and their blood had leaked out of their wounds and colored the water. He was nudged from behind, and when he turned he found himself looking into a mess of gelatinous adhesions, one displaced eye, and a gaping lower jaw full of broken teeth. Who was it? He had no idea. The abomination’s arms threatening to embrace Pullman so he kicked against the current and swam wildly until exhaustion forced him to stop.

  The destroyer was preparing to ram U-330. He watched it gathering speed and then there was a dreadful explosion and pieces of hot metal rained down all around him. Every impact hissed and created a cloud of steam. The destroyer was on fire. He had no time to observe its demise because U-330 had completed another circuit and was coming straight toward him. His limbs felt heavy and weak, and his extremities were numb with cold. He did not have the energy to start swimming again. The effort required to secure his survival was simply too much.

  U-330 was getting closer, and Pullman braced himself. The bow was beginning to plow a deep trench between the waves. It continued nosing downward and eventually the deck was submerged up to the 8.8 cm gun. The conning tower appeared compressed and a frothy crest rose up around it. Then there was nothing to see except a whirlpool of swirling bubbles. Pullman felt his legs being sucked downward, an unpleasant dragging sensation as the submarine passed beneath him. This traction eventually weakened and he turned his attention back to the destroyer, which was being consumed by flames. Some thirty meters away another conning tower broke the surface, and Pullman registered a white emblem. Graf bobbed up beside him and said, ‘Looks like a polar bear, must be U-689. Quick, we can make it—start swimming.’ Figures were looking over the bulwark and one of them pointed in their direction.

  On returning to Berlin Pullman was treated like a hero by his colleagues. Only twelve crewmen had survived, and the fact that he was one of them reflected well on the ministry. In addition, he had managed to save all of his film rolls, and this was viewed as an act of outstanding professionalism. ‘Well done, Leutnant!’ his immediate superior in the Press Division had exclaimed while vigorously shaking his hand. ‘Commendable! We can make something of this!’ Subsequently, Pullman had been whisked from one social function to another—morning, noon, and night—and introduced to numerous high-ranking party officials and their immaculately dressed wives. It was even rumored that he might be invited to a special gathering at the Kaiserhof and presented to the Führer.

  Pullman had been so very busy, he had only been able to develop ten of the twelve film rolls he had saved. Moreover, none of the photographs he had developed so far were—in his opinion—very good. He had produced much better work on previous patrols. ‘Ironic,’ he muttered to himself. An overeager waiter mistook the utterance as a request for attention, and Pullman had to wave the man away.

  At ten thirty the door opened and Herr Marbach entered the coffee house. He was a man in his early fifties, and his hat and coat were clearly very expensive. His movements were unhurried, and when he reached Pullman’s table he greeted the photographer with genuine affection. ‘Good to see you, my boy! Good to see you!’ They had originally met at an art exhibition and had become friends on account of a shared interest in early photography. Marbach owned one of the finest collections in private hands. It included numerous daguerreotypes and some charming street scenes by Eugène Atget, Michael Frankenstein, and Oscar Kramer. Marbach was a wealthy industrialist with Party connections and he had done a great deal to advance Pullman’s career. These benign intercessions were not entirely altruistic, for Marbach had three unmarried daughters between the ages of nineteen and twenty-four and he was always on the lookout for right-thinking husbands-to-be. His plan was to cultivate a circle of potential suitors and encourage a spate of romances just after the war’s successful conclusion. This policy had been decided upon in order to ensure against the possibility of premature widowhood. He was a doting father and couldn’t bear the thought of any of his daughters having to endure a broken heart. Pullman was second in line for the hand of Marbach’s middle daughter, Helga.

  The two men sat down, and Marbach ordered more coffees and an apple strudel. ‘So, you’ve returned in triumph. Tell me all about it.’ Pullman recounted the story of the scuttling of U-330—for the umpteenth time—and when he had finished, Marbach expressed his admiration in the form of an extended eulogy seasoned with words like ‘courage’ and ‘valor.’ Pullman was quick to reject any charges of heroism, knowing full well that Marbach was always impressed by a show of modesty.

  ‘I hear that you’ve been invited to the Kaiserhof?’ Marbach raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

  ‘That hasn’t been confirmed yet.’

  ‘But it seems likely.’

  Pullman shrugged and sipped his coffee. ‘I really don’t know.’

  Marbach studied his young companion and wondered whether he should elevate him to the position of first in line for his daughter’s hand. He was, after all, a handsome fellow with a winning (if somewhat incomplete) smile. An invitation to the Kaiserhof was a great honor. This boy could go places . . .

  They continued talking about life on board U-330.

  ‘He was something of a maverick, I hear.’ Marbach sliced his apple strudel with the edge of his fork and raised a piece up to his mouth. ‘Siegfried Lorenz.’

  ‘Yes,’ Pullman replied. ‘A good man, but one who had succumbed to unhealthy levels of cynicism. He certainly didn’t believe in our cause. In fact I doubt he believed in anything, really. He was a man without convictions.’

  ‘I heard that he fouled up a special operation.’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did you find that out?’

  ‘Through a business associate of mine—Ehrlichmann. We have joint interests in Paris.’ Marbach savored his apple strudel and swallowed. ‘Ehrlichmann knows an SS officer who had some involvement.’

  ‘Oh? What happened?’

  ‘Well, as far as I understand it, Lorenz was supposed to transport some important prisoners back to France. One of them was a scholar, a Norwegian academic, who, if the rumors are true, was a man possessed of unusual gifts—a kind of psychic, who Himmler wanted taken to the castle at Wewelsburg. This Norwegian was supposed to have an encyclopedic knowledge of runes, so you can imagine how keen the Reichsführer was to meet him. I believe some tests of his ability were planned . . . Anyway, the prisoners escaped or died, I forget which, so the mission ended ignominiously. And it was all Lorenz’s fault.’

  ‘That surprises me. He didn’t strike me as incompetent, merely uncommitted.’ Pullman gazed out of the window but was distracted by his own reflection occupying a table on the pavement outside. ‘I suppose we shouldn’t judge him too unkindly. He wasn’t exceptional in this respect. U-boat men are a peculiar breed. Th
ey do their duty but they can’t seem to see very much beyond simple patriotism. They lack vision. One wonders why?’

  ‘Compared with the army the navy has always been less . . . ideological.’

  ‘Well, things have got to change—and soon. Wars aren’t won with indifference.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  Pullman’s half-smile folded into an ugly sneer. ‘You know, sometimes, I detected in Lorenz not only cynicism but also a dreadful weariness. It was as if he had grown tired or bored . . . of everything.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘It was as if he didn’t want to go on.’

  ‘I abhor defeatism.’

  ‘There was something about him that I can only describe as—’ Pullman hesitated before completing his sentence contemptuously—‘decadent.’

  ‘A man like that deserves to be exposed. I hope you’ll be putting all this in your report.’ Pullman produced a short burst of false, histrionic laughter. Marbach was baffled by the young man’s reaction. ‘What?’

  Pullman looked around anxiously. ‘I’m going to have to ask you not to repeat any of this . . .’

  ‘As you wish—I can respect a confidence. Needless to say, you will respect mine. Ehrlichmann and so forth . . .’

  Pullman nodded and continued: ‘It’s been suggested that Lorenz should be awarded a posthumous Knight’s Cross.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous.’

  ‘In actual fact he was a few thousand tons short, but no one will be poring over the figures or raising any objections.’

  ‘Given what sort of a man he was . . .’

  ‘It’ll make a good story. And good stories are good for morale. Lorenz’s sister lives in Berlin—and there’s a niece and a nephew. His brother-in-law is fighting the Russians—a medical man who has been decorated twice for bravery. We’ll be able to hold a ceremony for the family and place touching photographs in various publications.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right,’ Marbach sighed. ‘One has to be pragmatic.’

  They discussed the war and mutual acquaintances, and then made small talk. Marbach invited Pullman to dinner at his townhouse and casually dropped into the conversation that Helga would be there that night. He was pleased by Pullman’s response. ‘And I must show you my latest acquisition,’ he continued, ‘an exquisite album of Viennese street portraits taken around 1902.’

  Later that morning Pullman walked back to the ministry and discovered, to his great relief, that he was not required to attend a social function that afternoon. An engagement had been arranged but due to unavoidable circumstances the dignitary he was due to meet had had to cancel his visit. For the first time that week Pullman was left to his own devices. The fact that, so far, none of his U-330 photographs had been very good was preying on his mind. He was eager to develop the last two rolls in the hope that he would find a few images of merit.

  When he had finished in the darkroom his mood was much better. Most of the pictures on the last two rolls had turned out to be rather good. There were several compelling portraits of the crew. Only one image was spoiled. It was the photograph that he had taken of Lorenz in the torpedo room. Lorenz was standing in front of the doors and looking directly into the camera; however, he must have moved just at the wrong moment. There seemed to be another commander standing next to him, a man of identical build with the same, intense expression. Pullman looked at the photograph more closely. He was unsure how the image had been produced. There was no blurring, no evidence of motion linking Lorenz and his ghostly double. It was rather irritating, because in all other respects this particular photograph was extremely effective. The camera had really captured Lorenz’s character. With some regret, Pullman screwed up the image and allowed the ball of crumpled thick paper to fall from his hand and into a bin.

  SOURCES AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would like to thank Wayne Brookes and Geoff Duffield for their encouragement when I initially proposed writing a novel about a haunted U-boat. I would also like to thank Wayne Brookes (a second time), along with Catherine Richards, Clare Alexander, Steve Matthews, and Nicola Fox for their comments on the first and subsequent drafts. I am indebted to Lieutenant Colonel Michael Pandolfo, USAF (ret.) for reading through the second draft, offering advice with respect to a host of technical matters, pursuing military contacts with specialist areas of expertise, and responding with saintly patience to my follow-up questions that were so numerous as to almost constitute harassment. Thank you also to Colonel G. Knox Bishop, USAF (ret.) for providing information on British and American Air Force activity around Iceland from August 1941 to January 1942; and finally, Kapitän zur See Jurgen Looft (Federal German naval attaché, Washington, DC) for resolving the thorny linguistic issue of whether or not German sailors refer to their ‘neuter’ boats using the feminine pronoun, and advising on naval ranks and titles. Needless to say, any errors are entirely my responsibility.

  Writing in English about people who are speaking in German is fraught with difficulties. Nautical terminology complicates matters even further. I’ve tried to get the best fit with respect to the tone of exchanges and the technical vocabulary, but this has necessitated a certain amount of license.

  The Passenger was inspired by the story of U-65, a ‘real’ haunted U-boat launched in Hamburg on June 26, 1917. The best known account of the haunting of U-65 was published in July 1962 in Blackwood’s Magazine and the author was G. A. Minto. The sea is the perfect metaphor for the unconscious. Ernst Simmel (as remembered by Hebbel) was a German psychoanalyst who knew Sigmund Freud. He emigrated to the United States in 1934 to escape Nazi persecution and died in 1947.

  The War Diary sections of The Passenger are almost literal transcriptions, and wherever possible I have based attacks, biographical details, and crew conversations on passages that appear in U-boat memoirs. The only fictional element in this book is the ghost. Everything else is—to a greater or lesser extent—authentic.

  While researching The Passenger I made extensive use of Das Boot by Lothar-Günther Bucheim. Indeed, I think it’s probably fair to say that I wouldn’t have been able to write this book without it. Das Boot served as my essential model and I willingly confess to ransacking its detail-rich pages. In addition to being a matchless document of day-to-day life on a Type-VIIC U-boat, Das Boot is also an outstanding antiwar novel that deserves favorable comparison with works such as Remarque’s All Quiet on the Western Front. Unfortunately Das Boot has been somewhat overshadowed in English-speaking countries by Wolfgang Petersen’s impressive film adaptation. The novel, however, possesses all of the virtues of the film and a great deal more besides.

  Other books that I found extremely useful were: U-boat Crews by Jean Delize, Type VII: Germany’s Most Successful U-boats by Marek Krzyształowicz, U-boat Attack Logs by Daniel Morgan and Bruce Taylor, The Official U-boat Commander’s Handbook edited by Bob Curruthers, Grey Wolf: U-boat Crewmen of World War II by Gordon Williamson (illustrated by Darko Pavlovic), U-boat Tactics in World War II by Gordon Williamson (illustrated by Ian Palmer), U-boat Crews 1914–45 by Gordon Williamson (illustrated by Darko Pavlovic), U-boat Bases and Bunkers 1941–45 by Gordon Williamson (illustrated by Ian Palmer), First U-boat Flotilla by Lawrence Paterson, Neither Sharks Nor Wolves: the Men of Nazi Germany’s U-boat Arm, 1939–1945 by Timothy P. Mulligan, Teddy Suhren Ace of Aces: Memoirs of a U-boat Rebel by Teddy Suhren and Fritz Brustat-Naval, Iron Coffins: a Personal Account of the German U-boat Battles of World War II by Herbert A. Werner, and Hirschfeld: the Secret Diary of a U-boat by Wolfgang Hirschfeld (as told to Geoffrey Brooks). In addition to the above, I also made use of: USN Confidential (declassified) report 2G-9C S14, Former German Submarine Type IX-C-40 (Portsmouth Naval Shipyard, Portsmouth, N.H., March 1946).

  On the subject of Nazi mysticism, Unholy Alliance: a History of Nazi Involvement with the Occult by Peter Lavenda was highly informative. Wewelsburg, a Renaissance castle in Westphalia, was the ‘cult’ headquarters of the Schutzstaffel (SS). The marbled floor of the Ob
ergruppenführersaal is decorated with a runic symbol known as the sun wheel (or black sun). It was supposed to mark the center of not only the castle, but also the entire Germanic world empire, and reflects the extraordinary significance given to runes (and their perceived power) by Himmler and his circle. Prior to the outbreak of war, Himmler had authorized missions to Iceland, the purpose of which was to search for pagan relics. Although such missions were carried out ostensibly as historical and racial-heritage research, many Nazi mystics were convinced that the acquisition of occult ‘tools’ would prove to have practical value.