by Antony Trew
Those in the control-room, realising that the time for action was approaching, watched silently as Kleber worked on the chart with pencil, dividers and parallel rulers. When he’d finished he turned to Dieter Leuner. ‘The eight boats of the western sector – Gruppe Kleber – art on average eighty miles from us. We keep station on the convoy and make seven knots with wind and sea on the starboard quarter.’ He paused, taking another look at the chart. ‘Gruppe Kleber, keeping to the southward during the approach, will have the weather on the port bow. I estimate they cannot make more than ten or eleven knots steaming into it. Agreed?’
‘Yes, Herr Kapitän. And that will be hard going.’
‘So, allowing for the westerly current, our combined speeds will be eighteen to nineteen knots. Distance to go for the U-boats, depending upon their position on the patrol line, fifty to ninety miles. It’s now 1025 hours. The nearest should reach us by 1300. The farthest by 1500.’
Dieter Leuner leant over the chart, checking the captain’s calculations. ‘Yes, Herr Kapitän. If those assumptions are correct, that is so.’
‘And High Command orders concentration to be completed by 1530 hours. So we have a time margin. Small, but enough.’ Kleber slapped the navigating officer on the back. ‘Nun beginnt der Spass … and then the fun starts, Dieter.’
Dieter Leuner was not sure about the fun, but Kleber’s confident smile confirmed his belief, shared by the men in the control-room, that they had a first-rate captain. A man who liked a fight and whose record showed he knew how to handle one.
Ausfeld reported by voice-pipe from the sound-room. ‘Radar impulses gaining in strength. Estimated range of nearest, twelve thousand metres.’
‘So,’ said Kleber. ‘We are too close. Their radar has tracked us down. More efficient than it used to be. Now they send destroyers to make us submerge.’
‘Thank God for temperature layers,’ said Dieter Leuner,
Kleber called Ausfeld by voice-pipe. ‘Let me know when the range is eight thousand metres.’ He turned back to Leuner. ‘We’ll dive then. Get under a layer and make five knots submerged. Steer the same course as the convoy. We’ll drop astern. Later we’ll surface and catch up without difficulty.’ The flashing white teeth and brilliant smile were reassuring. ‘In the meantime prepare for depth-charging. I don’t suppose it’ll be any more accurate than the last lot.’ He had raised his voice so that all in the control-room should hear. Kleber knew a great deal about morale building.
Whitehall intercepted the High Command’s 1020 signal to the Kola patrol line and before long its contents were deciphered. But the Admiralty was little wiser than it had been after interception of the first signal – now referred to as the KLEBER weather report – made by a U-boat at 1017 that forenoon in a position twelve miles south-west of convoy JW 137.
Substantially the High Command’s signal was a repetition of the KLEBER signal – ostensibly the High Command was re-transmitting the weather report to all U-boats in the area. But there were certain differences. The still unbreakable cipher groups, believed to be position co-ordinates, were now preceded by the words Gruppe Osten, two new cipher groups – also unbreakable – appeared and the four Xs were followed by KLEBER and the High Command’s call-sign.
The Admiralty and the escorts to convoy JW 137 intercepted acknowledgments by the U-boats off Kola-fifteen in all-their HF/DF bearings were noted, exchanged between escorts and plotted. Thus, within a few minutes, the positions of all fifteen U-boats were known to the Admiralty, to the Vice-Admiral in Fidelix and to the escorts.
It was noted that no signal of acknowledgment came from the area in which the U-boat which had sent the KLEBER weather report was known to be.
While the officers in the U-boat tracking-room at the Admiralty, and in Fidelix’s operations-room, were analysing and weighing the contents of the KLEBER weather report and the High Command’s 1020 signal, Redman in Vengeful was looking at both with a mixture of shock and incredulity. It wasn’t the import of the signals which worried him. It was the name KLEBER.
Could it possibly be Hans? Redman knew that he’d worked in his father’s legal practice in Frankfurt before the war and that he’d been a keen yachtsman. Once, light-heartedly, knowing that Redman served in the Royal Navy, Hans had said, ‘If there’s a war I think I’ll try for the navy. I don’t fancy marching or flying.’
Redman had said, ‘Well, don’t get in my way if you do. I’d hate to sink you.’
They’d laughed. Redman had added, seriously, ‘Let’s hope there won’t be a war,’ and the subject was changed for it was one they avoided.
Remembering this, he frowned at the signal in disbelief. It couldn’t be Hans. It was not an unusual name in Germany. He remembered once having asked trunk inquiries for the Klebers’ telephone number. ‘There are a number of Klebers in Frankfurt,’ the London operator had interrupted. ‘Five with those initials. Give me the address, please.’
No, he decided, handing the signal-board back to the yeoman, it was highly improbable. Hans could, after all, have gone into the Reichswehr or the Luftwaffe. More likely, in fact, for they were bigger services. Anyway, there were probably dozens of Klebers in the German Navy, particularly since its swamping by reserves.
But the nagging doubt remained, and while he leant over the chart-table watching Pownall plot the position of the Kola U-boats, he thought once again of that day in the mountains above Crans-sur-Sierre.
Redman breathed deeply, the Alpine air diffusing rivulets of cold sweat through his body. The profile of mountains, range upon range, fell back in perspective marking the horizon with pale serrated ridges. The slopes below, their extremities lost in mist, were buttressed with snow-laden rock, their flanks enfolding blue-green glaciers. Wisps of snow spiralled from distant peaks, church bells echoed up from the valley, the sun shone warm and reassuring.
He looked at his watch. Nine o’clock on Sunday morning. In the valley the Swiss were paying homage to their God, while the handful of visitors were probably still in their beds. The mountains, the fresh spring snow and crystalline air were remote from the world below. A sublime landscape, he seemed to be the only figure in it.
Narrowing his eyes against the glare he looked down the slopes. Skiing conditions seemed perfect despite small puffs of cloud low in the valley. The breeze would soon disperse them. The slopes, steep and difficult, were new to him and it was their reputation that had brought him there. Sampling the unknown, pitting his skill against danger. These things attracted him.
He bent down to adjust the safety release bindings, checking the calibrations: leicht, mittel, hart. He eased the bindings slightly: a broken leg on a deserted slope could mean disaster at that season when blizzards came with little warning, freezing an immobile body, concealing it until the summer thaw. He stood up, adjusted his goggles, ran the skis back and forth to clear their undersides of packed ice, and pushed off.
Skiing down the slopes he avoided the moguls with quick showy turns, gauging the quality of the new snow. At the bottom he flung fast round a shoulder of the mountain to find a narrow pass, a sharp rise in its crutch. He schussed down the last stretch, crouching, taking the shock of impact with angled knees, shooting into the air with a vigorous kick as he reached the crest. Landing beyond it, he swung in his skis, stopping urgently in his tracks, churning up a flurry of snow.
Below him lay the descent the locals called ‘das Geschiitzrohr’ – ‘the gun barrel’. The piste was exceptionally steep, barely passable. The sharp upward curving sides gave the impression of a blinding white tunnel, its edges deep in snow while the piste itself – or what he had presumed to be the piste – had been swept clean by the wind. Its ice ridges and moguls glistened menacingly and less than two hundred metres down its length it melted into cloud. Redman realised that visibility there would be no more than a score of feet.
He looked back up the mountainside. Most of it was hidden by the shoulder round which he’d come. It was unlikely that anyone would be fo
llowing, that day or any other. He reproached himself for his foolhardiness. Two eagles circling above a distant valley reminded him of vultures and he shivered. The drifts and icy confines of the gun barrel’ made it impossible to traverse. If he schussed, it could be years later before he emerged, deep frozen, from the bottom of a glacier. But he had to do something. He couldn’t stay there. For a moment he wondered if he was dramatising the situation, then decided he wasn’t. Sobered by fear, he pushed off, skis parted, crouched down, sticks under arms, speed building up until he was deafened by the wind.
Crashing over ridges and tumuli he tried hard to keep his legs supple, but was thrown through the air with increasing violence. Then, without warning, he was in the clouds plummeting through misty oblivion, only his reflexes saving him from baling out. The ground appeared from nowhere, rushing up to meet him, ramming his knees into his body. Again he was flung into the air. Fighting to keep the skis parallel, bracing himself for impact, he landed heavily on hard-packed snow. Miraculously he was still on his feet and free of that frightening speed.
The fog thinned. Ahead he saw a ledge, beyond it a clear drop. With fierce energy he attempted a turn but there was hard ice under the skis. For the third time he was thrown through the air. He hit the ice and his body seemed to burst. Enormous forces wrenched his legs from under him, his arms flailed, and a yellow light exploded behind his eyes.
It seemed he was stumbling through a dark forest and had come suddenly upon a clearing for the light was dazzling. It was a cold hostile world in which he found himself – a world filled with pain and blood-stained snow. Frightened, he attempted to make for the forest again but could not move.
Later he became aware of a dark shape above him, hands gripping, a man’s voice. Absurdly loud.
Kleber traversal the snow slowly savouring the crisp Alpine air. He stopped above ‘das Geschützroh’ and slipped up his goggles. Resting on his sticks, he examined the ski tracks. They were fresh. Someone had gone down there recently.
He looked down the long narrow chute, its end shrouded in mist. It was well named. Expert though he was he would not tackle it alone. He’d been down once, the year before, with Max Weinhardt, chief instructor and leader of the mountain rescue team. It had been an exciting experience. But Weinhardt knew the safe route and had led. He’d explained the danger before they started. ‘Das Geschützrohr’ had a lethal piste at its lower end, a steep hump, eight metres high. In bad visibility a skier unfamiliar with the chute would go straight over the hump to find a sharp ledge beneath it, below that a glacier. It was not large, but laced with edges, clefts and crevasses, and there was little snow. Once on it, the chances of survival for an injured man were small.
He pulled down his goggles, was about to move on, when the mist eddied and cleared from the foot of the chute. Below it he saw the glacier and frowned in disbelief. The body on it, grotesquely sprawled, must be the lone skier whose tracks he’d just examined.
After a moment of indecision he set off down the chute, skiing carefully, controlling his speed, and when he reached the hump, climbing it with special care. He went up its steep side, edged round the shoulder avoiding the jutting rock ledge, working his way cautiously on to the glacier. He was well aware of the risks he was taking. But since boyhood danger had drawn him. It was not bravery. It was a compulsion. The attraction of that which was to be feared. A challenge to skill and manhood.
Slowly, painstakingly, he worked his way down past the crevasse until he reached the body. It lay sprawled on blood-spattered ice, broken skis around it. He bent down, felt the skier’s heart and pulse. He couldn’t have been there long. When Kleber removed the injured man’s snow goggles he recognised him. It was the Englishman. They were staying at the same hotel. He’d been there for only a few days. Kleber and his sister Marianne had spoken to him once at the bar. A calm, taciturn man with brooding eyes and a firm mouth. Afterwards Marianne had said she thought him attractive. ‘I like these strong silent men.’ She laughed mischievously. ‘You never know what they’re thinking.’
‘I do, Marianne, when they look at you.’
‘Go on,’ she said. ‘You’ve a nasty mind.’
‘I know human nature,’ he protested.
‘Your own,’ she said. ‘Not everybody’s.’
Kleber worked on the Englishman, examining him with strong, gentle hands. There was an abrasion on the back of the skull. He was bleeding from nose and mouth, and a leg and wrist were broken.
‘Mein Gott,’ Kleber muttered. ‘Mein Freund, Sie machen es einen schwer … you are certainly a problem, my friend.’ He shook the man gently but got no response. He slapped his face. The Englishman groaned. Later he opened his eyes and said, ‘Oh, Christ!’
Kleber smiled reassuringly. ‘Don’t worry. It’s all right. I’ll get you out of here.’
The man turned his head, looked back up the glacier and frowned. He could not comprehend what had happened. How he’d got there? The German explained. The Englishman shook his head. He remembered nothing of skiing down. But he did recognise the stranger. The tall fair German from the hotel. The man with the good-looking sister. He was appalled at the risks his rescuer must have taken to reach him on the glacier. How would he get out of it? He asked him.
The German said, ‘Save your strength You’re going to need it all.’ He looked round sizing up the glacier. ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘I do first a reconnaissance. To find the route down.’ He moved away. The Englishman dozed off. He was awakened by someone shaking him. It was the German again. ‘It is only another two hundred metres to the end of the glacier,’ he said. ‘After that an easy slope with good snow.’
Kleber shed his skis and helped the Englishman to his feet, supporting him with an arm around his waist, the injured man’s arm round his neck. But it didn’t work. The broken leg baulked any carrying techniques, the Englishman groaning, cursing, apologising. At last Kleber decided there was nothing for it but to carry him on his back.
It was an arduous, precarious journey. The man was heavy and it had to be done in short spurts. Twenty yards at a time. Then a rest. After each stint the German would go back to fetch his skis and sticks. Then he would pick up his human bundle and struggle forward again. The surface of the glacier was treacherous; Kleber slipped at times and fell, and the Englishman would cry out with pain. It took two hours to reach the bottom of the slope. By then Kleber was near to exhaustion.
He found a comparatively sheltered place against the flank of a buttress, beneath a rock overhang. He propped the man in a corner, gave him slab chocolate and biscuits, and sat down next to him to rest. Later he said, ‘I go now for help. The weather is good. Don’t worry. I will be back with men and a stretcher. But move the limbs as much as possible. To keep the circulation going. Yes?’
‘I’ll try.’ Redman looked at the German, shaking his head, his face lined with pain, ‘You shouldn’t have risked your neck for me.’
‘You would have done the same. It is not so much.’
With sudden formality the Englishman said, ‘My name is Francis Redman.’
The German bowed. ‘Mine is Hans Kleber.’
They shook hands as if to seal the introduction. Kleber said, ‘Auf wiedersehen. I’ll be back soon.’
He was as good as his word, but ‘soon’ proved to be many hours later.
That night Redman found himself in a warm bed in a small hospital in the valley, leg and wrist in splints and plaster, head bandaged and a pretty Swiss nurse leaning over him. ‘How do you feel?’ she asked.
‘Marvellous,’ he said, and fell into a deep sleep.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
About an hour after enemy destroyers had forced U-0117 to dive for the second time that morning, Kleber brought her to the surface and set off in pursuit of the convoy, driving down-wind at high speed.
The time was 1139.
Maintaining the last-known course of the convoy the submarine had made good four miles while submerged. In that time Kleber estimated t
he convoy to have travelled six or seven miles allowing for the westerly current. Before diving U-0117 had been keeping station upwind of JW 137, ten to twelve miles on its starboard quarter.
Not long after surfacing Ausfeld reported, ‘Faint radar impulses between red zero-one-zero and zero-two-five. Estimated range twenty-seven thousand metres.’
‘Ausgezeichnet … splendid, Ausfeld. Who is operating the search-receiver?’ Kleber had to raise his voice and shout down the voice-pipe to make himself heard above the howl of the wind and the buffeting of the seas.
‘I am, Herr Kapitän. Now we have found the convoy I hand over to Haben the watchkeeper.’
‘It should be called Ausfeld’s convoy, not mine,’ shouted Kleber.
‘You joke, Herr Kapitän. I do only my best.’
‘A very good best.’ Kleber turned to Rathfelder. ‘By heavens, it’s freezing. My hands and feet are numb. Go down and get some hot soup into your body. When you’re back, I’ll do the same.’
By noon Kleber had closed to within eleven miles of JW 137. Now he put U-0117 broad on the convoy’s starboard quarter, maintaining the up-wind position. The U-boat was trimmed well down. A virtually impossible radar target for escorts at that range. The convoy was still steering the course it had been on when U-0117 was last forced to dive. For the time being there was no need for a further shadowing report.
The dock over the chart-table showed 1227.
At 1120, an hour after its first message to the Kola patrol line, the German High Command made a further signal. It was intercepted by the Admiralty and this time Whitehall found it to be a conventional operational signal ordering all U-boats of Gruppe Osten to report their positions. In the next half-hour the Admiralty intercepted B-Bar signals from fourteen U-boats. The HF/DF equipped escorts to JW 137 had already picked these up and plotted the positions of the submarines.
