The Last Wolf

by Stephen Ward

  Winters woke early, his head feeling a little delicate after last night's overindulgence in the hotel bar. His attention was drawn to what sounded like a steam train rumbling and wheezing from the room next door. Knocking, then pushing open the unlocked door, he was confronted by the sight of Filmore's slightly off-white Y fronts. “My God!” thought Winters, “it's lucky he's unmarried. She'd have to be deaf or drunk to sleep through that!” After several futile attempts to raise Filmore, he left him for dead and decided to go for breakfast and collect him afterwards. He slammed the door with scant regard for the other man and headed down the hallway in the direction of the foyer.

  The sounds of clinking cutlery and hushed conversation led him to the dining room. The aromas of cooked food made his mouth start to water and his stomach rumble. He was greeted by an attractive young lady, who said, “I'm so sorry, sir, there's a forty five minute wait for a table as we're very busy this morning.” This was not what he wanted to hear. Winters needed breakfast, not just because he was hungry but he was in dire need of several cups of strong coffee. He strongly suspected that he was still over the legal limit and would have struggled to get the car out of the hotel's driveway. It had also become apparent that Filmore was in even worse shape.

  He had just turned to leave when a voice came from the other side of the dining room, “Excuse me, Donald, would you care to join us as we have a spare seat?”

  Looking over through his miasmic haze, he could see Alison Turnbull sitting at a window table with two young boys messily tucking into boiled eggs. Remembering the incident in the hotel lobby, Winters smiled and made his way across the room.

  “Thank you so much, Alison. You're a lifesaver.”

  “You're very welcome, Donald. After last night, it's the least we can do for you, isn't that right, boys?”

  A shy “Yes” could be heard from both of them as they continued tackling the runny eggs with fingers of toast.

  The waitress came over and after placing clean cutlery, stood poised with her pad, “Would you like more time to look at the menu, sir?”

  “No. I'm fine. May I have a full English breakfast with three rounds of toast and a pot of coffee, please.”

  The waitress smiled and made her way off towards the kitchen.

  “Where's your friend, this morning?”

  “He's still asleep. I think he drank a few too many brandies last night,” smiled Winters. Placing his napkin on his lap, he thanked the waitress who had brought his breakfast.

  “How is Laurence getting along? I know you said he was busy.” asked Winters as he poured the hot water into the teapot.

  “Oh, he's fine, but snowed under. He never seems to stop. I know you said you’d sent him letters but had had no response. I've hardly seen him for weeks, myself. First he was in Plymouth, then the Admiralty sent him to Portsmouth to oversee the refit of the base there.”

  Winters felt a little more at ease knowing that he wasn't being ignored but the mere mention of the Admiralty made him seethe with anger.

  “Yes,” continued Alison,” it was only a few weeks ago that he suggested that we come over to see you and Jean on his next leave but since then he’s been gone on some sort of Exercise. I don't know the details really. All I know is that he jumped at the chance as apparently he'll be on the Talisman.”

  “His old ship?” asked Winters, trying not to show his surprise by taking a bite of his toast.

  Alison nodded, “I had no chance of stopping him. As you well know he wasn't at all happy to give up command of her, so when this opportunity came up to sail on her for two days, he took it.”

  “I'm astonished that the old tub is still in service,”smiled Winters. He and the old girl went through a lot together.” The pair shared a laugh. Then Michael spoke up, “Did Grandad really crash his ship, Nana?”

  Alison almost spilt her coffee as she hastily replied, “No!” but Winters had already interjected a “Yes, he did!”

  The young boy found this very funny and while he finished his breakfast, Winters began telling the lads the story of how Turnbull had had his accident. Michael and Stephen listened intently.

  Alison attempted to quiet their chuckling, “You know Laurence will just love you for telling them that story. Stephen never forgets anything. He won't let his Grandad live this down.”

  “Always happy to help” Winters winked.

  “You told me you were catching a ferry. Where are you going?”

  “My colleague and I are going to France for a few weeks,” he replied.

  “Oh very nice, business or pleasure?”

  “Actually, we are going over on a Research trip.”

  “Alison replied, I thought you didn't go on expeditions any more.”

  He answered that he no longer made a habit of it but that this one would, hopefully, prove to be the end of years of personal research.

  Just then Filmore walked into the Dining Room. Seeing them he walked over, “You could have woken me,” Filmore growled, a far cry from his usual gentlemanly demeanour.

  “Sore head? I did try several times but you wouldn't stir, so I left you to sleep.”

  After a brief greeting, Filmore sat at a table for two next to Winters and Alison, ordering a continental breakfast with coffee. Then tucked in noisily. Crumbs fell carelessly over the crisp white tablecloth as he spoke in increasingly animated fashion about the day's plans.

  The boys soon became restless. Checking her watch Alison realised they still had some time to kill before the dockyard opened. “Come along, boys. Let's go and clean up before we start our day.” Rising to their feet the boys whispered “Goodbye” and Alison said “Thank you so much for last night, Donald, and you Mr. Filmore.”

  “You're very welcome” answered Filmore raising his head, mouth still full of his breakfast croissant.

  Winters stood to make his farewell and he hugged Alison. “It was a pleasure. Are you here for a few days?”

  “Yes. Until Laurence arrives from the Exercise in Lorient.”

  It was ironic, he thought, that his friend from whom he wanted help, was on his way here, and that he was on his way to where Turnbull was coming from. “Well, goodbye, Alison. Please tell Laurence that I was asking after him, won't you?”

  Nodding, she kissed him on the cheek and left.

  Winters settled back down and proceeded to chastise Filmore. “You could have shown a little more class. That lady is a very old friend of mine.”

  “Yes! A handsome woman, for sure.”

  “I don't mean it like that and you know it. You make a very, very nasty drunk!” answered a flustered Winters.

  The pair grinned and then after finishing breakfast they rose from the table thanking and paying the waitress.

  “Come on,” said Filmore. “The port isn't too far away but we'll need to check in.” So in agreement the pair returned to their rooms to collect their luggage.

  Half an hour later, Winters and Filmore arrived in the lobby to return the room keys to the Receptionist and then made their way through the heavy doors and out into the car park. The gold paint of the Ford Granada glinted brightly in the early morning sun. Winters had warmed to the car over the long journey and had decided to buy one for Jean as a surprise when he got back from France. Filmore threw his bag in the boot, slammed the lid firmly and waited for Winters to open the passenger door from inside. Then he settled down into his seat. Throwing his cigarette from the open car window, Winters turned the key. Nothing! A second attempt brought forth only a click. After three more attempts it became clear that the battery was dead. Winters sighed and deciding that buying one of these perhaps wasn't such a great idea after all, he released the bonnet handle.

  Chapter 37

  Forrester knew that flooding the submarine was a hazardous move and it wasn't something to be done without some preparation. The main hatch had to be opened outwards and the sea pressure would obviously push the hatch tight to the hull. So the only way it would open was if the interior of t
he sub was flooded. Then he remembered that the reason he was in this plight in the first place was that the hatch was jammed shut! So he clearly couldn't risk flooding the compartment and finding that the hatch couldn't be opened with him rapidly running out of air. There had to be another way out. Somehow he had to find his way into the lower hull. It was useless staying here. He just hoped the lights were on down there. They had, at least given him some small measure of hope. Part of him screamed at the thought of descending back into darkness.

  Working his way around the room once more, he searched the floor and eventually found what he was looking for. Off to one side in the corner was a hatch. As he began to turn the wheel he was surprised that it turned so easily. Slowly, the lights began to dim making him pause but he decided he wasn't going to give up now. The lighting, thankfully, returned to normal so he continued. The wheel stopped suddenly and something came free on the other side. As he pulled up the lid, stale, foetid air rushed up and another ladder rusted and damp fell away below. He was relieved to see a dim light further down but eager to not be imprisoned in the lower compartment, Forrester rotated the wheel completely so that the latch connected making it impossible to lock. As he climbed down, his footsteps on the rungs made a metallic sound that echoed off down the shaft. The ladder terminated in another chamber. In the gloomy light it was clear that this space had not fared as well as the upper compartment. Water on the floor was about an inch deep but the sub's list had caused the water to accumulate to one side. Forrester quickly realised that he'd become disorientated as to which way was fore or aft. He was totally uncertain. No matter. The only way was down for now, as yet again a quick glance showed there were no other exits or hatches to the outside.

  The water on the floor and the condition of the compartment didn't bode well and the further he descended, the rust on the walls and lack of working lights made him ever more conscious of his precarious situation.

  Remembering how, on every vessel he stepped foot on, he often lost his bearings, he decided to pick a location that could be used as a reference point so as to not get totally lost and only then move forward. He quickly found himself in what appeared to be a galley. The metal range-cooker rings stood cold and all surfaces glistened with moisture. Drips from the ceiling and pipes had accumulated in puddles below. For a brief moment he smiled as he noticed that the only dry part was the sink. Opening a line of small cupboards he found them empty. Strange, he thought, no tins of food, very strange. Surely even if the crew had abandoned ship there would still have been food or personal effects. Walking slowly around, he shone the small torch lighting up darkened corners. As he did so, the torch light reflected in a mirror startling him. Stepping back his head bumped into a hanging rack of pans causing them to crash to the floor. His heart raced, “Fucking hell, Forrester. It's just you!” He raised the flash light at the mirror once again. The reflection was distorted as the old oxidised mirror showed his pale face and dirty smudged brow.

  Concentrating on his reflection, he suddenly became aware of a figure standing across the room from him. Terrified, he froze, rooted to the spot. The man was wearing an old suit and even through his shock, Forrester could make out his silvering hair. Forrester's heart raced and his hands shook. “Come on, Forrester,” he thought. “Get a grip. CO2, it has to be CO2 build up. I'm seeing things.” He blinked, swallowed and closed his eyes. When he opened them, to his horror the face in the mirror was less than a foot away. Every fibre of his being wanted to scream but what finally came out sounded more like a squeak. In fright he wanted to run but where to? He was stuck on this boat. His legs seemed unable or unwilling to move and he found himself repeating the same mantra to himself over and over again, “You're seeing things. It's not real. CO2” Blinking again, he found the face was gone. What a relief! He slumped to sit on the wet floor, head in his hands. Not since he was a child had he felt such primal fear. Allowing his heart to calm and to stop pumping in his chest, he took a deep breath and raised his head. This wasn't happening, he thought. Almost mirroring him on the other side of the room, the figure sat on the floor, his legs under his chin, dark eyes staring blankly at Forrester. It's lips started to move but Forrester couldn't hear any sound. The figure became more and more animated and began to move. Standing, it approached Forrester. If there was a hell, then he was in it now. As the man person thing, ghost, apparition, whatever it was became increasingly agitated, still not a word could be heard. By this point, be it in frustration or anger the man was less than a foot away, looking down at Forrester huddled on the ground.

  Forrester had to speak. His scared croak finally emerged. “I can't hear you. I see you but I can't hear what you are saying. I'm sorry. My name is Forrester.”

  The figure stopped but the face moved closer and the lips moved and mouthed something else but still without any sound. As quickly as it appeared, he was gone.

  The already pale light began to flicker and dim before flashing three times. Then the filament went out and he was in darkness. No no no, he thought. If things were bad before, well it had just got infinitely worse. A crackle became audible from an unseen speaker and a hiss then silence. Suddenly the compartment became flooded with red light. Four bulbs shone, one at each corner of the space and the crackle recommenced.

  By this time Forrester couldn't care less what colour light was on, but for God's sake it needed to stay on, if only for the sake of his sanity. The figure appeared again and sat cross-legged opposite him, its lips moving and arms pointing and gesturing as if to question Forrester's non-responsiveness. The presence was becoming increasingly aggravated by the minute as he poked and prodded the air. Forrester screamed “I can't hear you. I don't know what you want from me. Please, I'm stuck here and I need help.” “Please,” he begged.

  Again, the lights flashed, flickered and dimmed. Each time, the figure disappeared then reappeared. Finally, the lights went out and Forrester sat shivering on the wet floor. He muttered “Stop! Please stop this.”

  The crackle from the hidden speaker turned to a hum, then suddenly a voice, distant but clear came through. “Who are you? What are you doing here? What do you want?”

  By now, Forrester was convinced he was in a nightmare that he wanted to wake up from but from which there seemed to be no escape. The German accented voice continued to ask the same questions over and over until Forrester again screamed, “My name is Forrester. I'm trapped here and I want to leave.”

  The crackle resumed, then the hum until the voice returned stronger than before, “That is up to me...”

  Chapter 38

  It was a cold morning as Huber locked his quarters and started down the walkway towards K1. Pausing he looked over at Keller's quarters. The windows were dark and he hadn't seen his friend for over a week. By now, Huber knew to leave him alone. He knew what had to be done and had every intention of completing the tasks with or without the older man's help.

  As he approached the yard there was even more hustle and bustle than usual. A big raid had shaken everyone up the night before. A pall of grey smoke still filled the sky over the town and the smell of burning was strong. Labourers worked under guard to right a wagon back onto its rails whilst yard crews rushed to and fro checking for damage on the tracks. Life inside the pens went on much as usual but the German war machine was beginning to struggle. There were rumours circulating amongst the men that the War could even be lost within months. According to some of the crews, the Allies' advance across Europe was both quick and relentless but the contradictory newsreels made it difficult to judge the real situation. Huber didn't care – he just wanted it all to be over.

  Working his way over to the metal door he walked briskly down the corridor, his footfalls echoing on the concrete floor. The meeting with Stein earlier that week had encouraged him to take a little more control and he couldn't help but feel proud when he gazed at the giant U-boat sitting majestically in the water. He'd made some alterations during the week which had greatly annoyed the yard crew,
with the overall result that the design of the vessel looked much more aggressive. If the rumours were to be believed, then the navy would need all the help it could get.

  Huber's concentration was suddenly broken by the sound of the air raid siren, its familiar noise pitching from low to high. The alarm began inside K1 and continued on through K2 and K3. The workforce who were, by now, used to it carried on regardless. Nothing could get at them in here. Soon the sounds of planes, a drone low and constant could be heard followed by whistles and muffled crumps. Those thuds came closer and still closer until the anti-aircraft battery around the base began to return fire. Huber knew this must be yet another big raid.. Curiosity got the better of him and he walked over to look through a crack in the fire door. It was then that an explosion threw him backwards, rubble and dust hitting the door like bullets followed by another and another. Picking himself up with his nose bleeding from the impact with the ground he realised that it was as well that the door had been there or he'd have been dead. Peering in the direction of the yard, he could see burning vehicles and men and soldiers running about. Some of the workers were trying to escape but were being cut down by machine gun fire from the soldiers taking shelter behind the now-upturned railway car. Shouts rang out from every direction. The anti-aircraft guns were still firing backed by the drone of motors high above. Huber stared up and saw a black locust-like shape high in the sky. Then the one shape turned into many, as bombs dropped from the planes' bellies, racing and whistling down indiscriminately towards their targets. Fires blazed. By now the yard crews had stopped working and were themselves looking on in awe at the spectacle before them. Tentatively they ventured out to try to help the wounded. Huber had never seen it as bad before. Blood ran down his arms as he helped lift the injured to safety. One man was crying for his mother as he was dragged across the concrete towards the pens. A huge explosion caused Huber to duck and close his eyes. When he opened them, the man had fallen silent, a large metal fragment imbedded where one of his once tear-filled eyes had been. He was still, save for the twitching of his foot on the ash and dust-covered ground. Huber dropped the body and tried to take cover under a lorry parked between him and the door.