“Sounds like a plan to me!” Schiller grinned in return, happy to see his friend and CO looking so pleased for a change. “I’ve no doubt the mess can throw on something special for the techs and the engineers for a job well done.”
“Excellent idea…!” Reuters agreed, then stopped for a moment, thinking some more. “Also… have the POW work gang brought down and given a good meal too – none of this would’ve been accomplished without their input either and some lost their lives because of it. Good work shouldn’t go unrecognised” Another thought suddenly occurred to him. “… And send an invite across to the pilot of that helicopter to join my table for breakfast on the day of the test – that was some fine flying and he too deserves to be rewarded. He can have the honour of dining in The Führer’s presence, then join us for the test to see his hard work put to good use.” Feeling particularly magnanimous, he added: “Make sure he brings the rest of his flight crew with him also: fine thing to let them all see what the fuss has been about.”
If for no other reason, Schiller, for his own part, was pleased the completion of the project would mean they’d all be free to return to Germany soon, as Reuters had suggested. There was much preparation still to be done for the Reichsmarschall’s upcoming tour of Japan, and by definition that meant there was still much work to be done by Albert Schiller, his Aide-de-Camp: not the least of which being they still needed to secure the services of a Japanese interpreter that was both competent and trustworthy – a combination difficult to find at the best of times. Schiller continued to consider all those issues as he left his CO enjoying the chilly afternoon and made off toward the bunker once more to begin issuing orders.
Village of Port Logan
The Rhins, Scotland
Reich-Protektorat Grossbritannien
Port Logan began as a planned town created by Colonel Andrew MacDowall, the laird of Logan. Formerly known as Port Nessock, the village had previously been little more than a few residents clustered together in support of a ramshackle pier and a local industry for the gathering of kelp and samphire. In 1818, the laird erected a quay and a bell tower designed by Thomas Telford, along with a reconstruction of the Lower Road as it ran along the beachside that repositioned it atop a raised causeway.
Although it obscured the sea view of the residents already living along the Lower Road they were quite thankful, generally-speaking, for the shelter it provided against onshore winds and many chose to build second storeys onto theoir existing properties rather than move to the Upper Road on the hillside behind, about 100 metres further back from the beach (as had been the intent behind its original construction).
The Lower Road itself held the majority of the town’s residents, with the Port Logan Inn positioned at the northern end of the street along with no more than perhaps two-dozen predominantly single-fronted terrace houses of whitewashed brick and bare stone. From there the Lower Road curved around another hundred metres or so to the southern side of the beach, where the old bell tower stood alone and abandoned at the end of a short, artificial breakwater. The Port Logan village hall stood there by the road beside a few old stone huts and no more than half a dozen small fishing boats either moored by the breakwater or beached on the sand by the southern end of the causeway wall.
Port Logan was too small a community to warrant the presence of full-time occupation forces. The closest German garrisons were platoon-sized Wehrmacht units stationed to the south at Kirkmaiden and to the north and Portpartrick, both detachments controlled from their parent unit headquarters at Stranraer on Loch Ryan. Smaller villages and hamlets such as Port Logan were left to rely on their own local constabulary to keep the peace, the same as it had been for decades anyway, if not for centuries; the only difference being those tiny police forces – often single officers in many cases – now answered directly to the local Gestapo HQ (also at the Wehrmacht barracks in Stranraer, in this case).
Sixty years old if he was a day, Constable McDougall was Port Logan’s incumbent local police officer. He hadn’t been considered fit enough to enlist during either the First World War or in the Boer War prior to that, and the arthritis that had set into his knees over the years since hadn’t helped his mobility in any way. His job was a generally simple and uneventful one in any case. With a population so tiny there was little crime in the area or problems of any kind, and as patriotic as the next man, he certainly had no interest in putting too much effort into investigating matters of an unusual nature on behalf of Nazi occupation forces.
Like the squatters, for example. McDougall knew that there’d been a small group of ‘out-of-towners’ camped down by the bell tower for the last two days or so… he’d seen them arrive in the back of a truck in the middle of the night. Of course, he’d turned a blind eye to it all: who was he to begrudge some shelter for the less fortunate, and it didn’t seem likely that something so insignificant would be of any interest at all to the local barracks at Stranraer.
As Gerard McDougall relaxed in the front sitting room of his home on the Upper Road, glass of brandy in hand and cigar between his lips, he was able to gaze out across the dark water of the North Channel and watch the reddening orb of the afternoon sun fall ever-lower against the cloud-streaked western horizon. He could clearly see some of the locals out and about, going about their business or walking their dogs in exactly the same manner they’d have done in the years before the invasion.
His eyes could easily pick out the clusters of sea birds that wheeled and circled about Telford’s bell tower on the quay, no doubt using their own keen senses to search for morsels of food in the discarded bait and remnants of gutted fish left by local fisherman. Something else he could clearly see was the large, dark and rather erroneous silhouette of what appeared to be a small motor-torpedo boat as it cruised quietly into Port Nessock Bay on the high tide, the setting sun behind making it difficult to pick out any details of identification.
It might have been a German vessel – there were rare occasions when Kriegsmarine coastal craft would put in an appearance while patrolling the straits between Scotland and Ireland in search of refugees or allied submarines – but it was unlikely. None of them had ever come in so close to shore and he didn’t think it likely they’d have any need to do so that afternoon. The appearance of a vessel belonging to another nation was probably something he should report to the Gestapo in Stranraer of course, but McDougall preferred to think of the arrival as German: it seemed like a far less strenuous approach to the afternoon.
They’d obviously come in to collect those squatters camping down by the bell tower – taking them in for questioning, no doubt – and as they seemed to have the matter in hand, there didn’t seem much point in him bringing it up with anyone. Best for one to mind one’s business and keep one’s nose out of the business of others. That was a fine rule to stick to, and McDougall intended to do just that.
Outside in the street, his neighbour stopped at the front window while walking by and took a moment or two to also stare out across the bay at the MTB as it took on its passengers at the quay. One of the tiny figures aboard the deck stood for a moment and raised a hand in greeting, and Farquhar – his neighbour – instinctively raised his own arm in reflex to wave back as he stared on in stunned silence.
“Right well-mannered, those ‘Germans’,” McDougall thought out loud, a wry smile spreading across his features as he took another sip of his brandy. “Really warms the heart to see such friendliness!” He slowly raised his glass in salute and drew the cigar from his lips with his other hand, pride and defiance in his old eyes as he released a long plume of smoke into the air as he exhaled. “Stick it up ‘em, fellas… whoever ye are, stick it right up the bastards!”
He watched as the MTB quickly put out to sea once more, barely a dark, shapeless shadow against the backdrop of the blazing sun. Thin, broken layers of cloud filled the upper half of the western sky and the entire horizon was bathed in an eerie, crimson glow of sunset. McDougall sighed contentedly and continue
d to smoke his cigar.
Red sky at night, he thought to himself with a vague tilt of his head, still smiling as the torpedo boat powered away to the north toward open sea and the Atlantic Ocean. Looks like it’s going to be a fine day tomorrow…!
5. Acts of Defiance
MTB 102
North Channel (Straits of Moyle)
Reich-Protektorat Grossbritannien
September 24, 1942
Thursday
Motor Torpedo Boat 102 began her career under the title of Vosper Private Venture Boat. Designed by Commander Peter Du Cane, managing director of shipbuilding firm Vosper Ltd, she was launched in 1937, purchased by the Admiralty, and taken into service as prototype MTB number 102. At twenty-one metres long and with a displacement of just 33 tonnes, she was a relatively small vessel by comparison to many torpedo boat classes in service with the Kriegsmarine or the USN, however in exchange for lesser size and mass she was also very fast.
Originally built fitted with three 57-litre Isotta-Fraschini V-8 petrol engines, she was able to develop a combined output of almost 2,500kW (around 3,300 horsepower in the old imperial measurement scale). Such a high power to weight ratio meant that even when fully loaded she could make 43 knots. Stripped of armament and non-essential equipment she could push close to forty-eight as designed, something that made her a very versatile vessel.
MTB 102 had served in The Channel during the opening phase of the Second World War and had acquitted herself well during the otherwise disastrous attempt to evacuate the beaten remnants of the British Expeditionary Force from the beaches of Dunkirk. Operation Dynamo had been an abject failure with more than 300,000 troops stranded and taken prisoner by the advancing Germans, however MTB 102 had nevertheless shot down three enemy aircraft and sunk two Kriegsmarine S-boats with her 21-inch torpedoes.
She’d suffered significant damage herself during the engagement and had eventually been forced to withdraw to safety. With shipyards in England already in disarray due to Luftwaffe air raids, her commander was ordered to take her further west. Making short, ‘port-hopping’ trips around the southern end of the country, the ship had eventually arrived at Belfast where it was intended she’d receive repairs at the great shipyards of Harland & Wolff.
Events had overtaken her fate at that point and the invasion of September Eleven had come while the boat was still waiting her turn for repairs. In the chaotic days that followed, she was instead moved further north again to County Donegal, this time finding safer shelter in the waters of Lough Swilly, a naval anchorage only recently ceded to the Republic of Ireland by the Royal Navy. Following further delays, the badly-needed repairs were finally completed although the vessel was substantially modified as a result.
With the capitulation of British Forces on the mainland and the subsequent German occupation, MTB 102 officially became the property of the Irish Naval Service, although the reality of the situation was actually somewhat different. Control of MTB 102 was handed over to the Irish Republican Army for use in clandestine operations at the official request of the British Government-in-exile, now residing in Australia.
Richard Kransky thought that MTB 102 was the finest vessel he’d ever seen as he and the rest of the group stood on the quay by the old bell tower and waited for the boat to draw near. Built during the 18th century, the tower was nothing more than an empty tourist attraction now and the group had been huddled inside its cramped, dark, freezing interior for two nights awaiting the arrival of their passage out of Occupied Britain. With their military training and experience living on the run, he and Michaels had held up well enough and the other adult of the group, Lowenstein, also seemed to be coping, if to a lesser extent. What little conversation they’d had during that time suggested he’d spent a fair part of the last two years hiding out in France evading capture by the SS and Gestapo, and it seemed like the experience had hardened him somewhat... something that might well stand him in good stead should they find themselves in danger at some stage.
The children on the other hand weren’t coping well at all. Certainly, they’d also been living in hiding for some time now in London however being kept a secret in someone’s basement or loft was a far cry from being forced to spend several nights beneath the stars in freezing conditions with little to maintain warmth save for the clothes on your own backs.
They hadn’t spoken much and they mostly kept each other’s company wherever possible, and Kransky suspected from the body language and interaction between the two teens that they’d known each other for some time. They were too young to be considered boyfriend and girlfriend – either would probably have baulked at the suggestion – yet it was clear they were close friends nevertheless and they shared a level of innocent closeness that was clear in their speech and reactions to one another.
The boy was definitely the dominant one of the pair and the few times Kransky had spoken to him, Levi had displayed a level of quiet maturity far beyond his thirteen years. The American wasn’t as surprised by that fact as some might’ve been: his experiences in other war-torn environments such as Spain or Manchuria had given him a strong insight into the kind of loss and tragedy that could often force children to age prematurely.
The children’s relationship with Lowenstein was another matter entirely – one that neither Kransky nor Michaels had been able to work out to a satisfactory degree. The man was incredibly protective of them and would often speak for them without hesitation, even in the case of the most innocuous-seeming questions. Yet to Kransky at least – an extremely good reader of body language as he was – it also seemed at times that the man was in some way either scared or somehow in awe of the pair. The American had noticed on a number of occasions that Lowenstein often treated the pair with something akin to a sense of mild reverence when he wasn’t aware he was being watched.
Kransky was the last to step aboard as the MTB scuffed up against the stones of the quay at high tide, several old tyres hung off her sides by ropes for use as a protective buffer for her wooden hull. The actual act of climbing aboard was a somewhat tricky affair: the need for a speedy departure meant the vessel hadn’t been tied up at the quay, and as such it rocked and swayed at the mercy of the tides and the backwash and wake of its own approach. Like the others, Kransky was forced to pick his moment carefully and leap across at exactly the right moment, ever-fearful a wrong step would see him lose his footing and end up crushed between the wharf and the hull.
A number of the crew clustered around them, distinct sensations of accusation and mistrust in the air as the group huddled together on the afterdeck. Kransky feared for a few seconds that the whole thing might be a trap however he was ultimately able to release a sigh of relief as Michaels stepped forward and broad smiles spread across their faces as he greeted one of them in Gaelic, both men embracing tightly. That relief was nothing compared to the surprise and genuine happiness he experienced a moment later as he heard a familiar but completely unexpected voice behind him.
“I was startin’ ta think me eyes were deceivin’ me,” Eoin Kelly declared cheerfully as he climbed up through the hatch leading up from the engine room below, just a few metres from where they stood. “Thought to meself: surely, it couldn’t be that lumbering ox of a man, Richard Kransky standing on the very deck of me own ship, there…!”
“You gotta be kidding me!” Kransky shot back immediately, his face lighting up with a huge smile as he caught sight of a man he’d not seen in over two years. “I’ll be God damned! Your ship, you say?”
“Aye, she’s ‘my’ ship all right – part of me ‘stable’ at least and first of a growing band. I’ll take ye on the tour soon enough but let’s get the rest of our guests below decks first. The engine room stinks to high heaven – I have to admit – but it’s nice and warm for all that: just the thing fer a cold evening such as the like o’ this.” He turned to one of the crew standing nearby to issue his orders. “Brendan – show our guests down stairs and look after ‘em – make sure they all get s
ome food and somethin’ to drink as well. None of the men aboard wore any uniforms, insignia or rank of any kind. All, Kelly included, wore plain, dark-coloured pullovers and pea coats over dungarees and solid boots and it was impossible to determine any obvious system of rank among them.
Kelly himself was a man of barely average height. Short and stocky of build, he carried a broad face that could regularly display an equally-broad, infections smile, all mantled beneath a shock of unruly, beet-red hair that refused to be controlled by the black, woollen beanie snugged down over his head. There were just a few flecks of grey sneaking into his sideburns and at his temples and he seemed to be perhaps in his late forties.
“Aye, Eoin…” the man responded instantly, nodding but giving no salute or making any attempt to come to attention as he turned to go about his orders. Instead he directed his next words the rest of the new arrivals. “If you’ll all come down below decks with me, we’ll get you all sorted with some warm clothes and something to eat. We’ve been expecting you all and cook’s had some sausages and mash prepared all special like.”
“A sight for sore eyes to be certain,” Kelly remarked, moving in close to Kelly and shaking the man’s hand firmly. “Wouldn’t have thought we’d ever meet again in a million years with what happened after I left Scapa Flow. Nice to see you’re well enough.”
“Well as could be expected,” Kransky replied with a sigh and a shake of his head as he stared up at the village beyond the beach and the boat’s helmsman began to slowly reverse MTB 102 away from the quay once more. “Mighty glad to be getting the hell outta England though – I’ll tell you that for nothin’!”
Winds of Change (Empires Lost Book 2) Page 19
