by Peter Haden
Daylight brought a calm sea with only a light breeze. They steamed on through occasional wisps of early morning mist but there was only patchy cloud – for the most part visibility was excellent. They heard it before it was in plain sight – the buzz of twin BMW engines on a Heinkel HE 59 flying boat. The biplane circled low, inspecting them.
‘Damn,’ said Johann. ‘I thought we had got away with it. The patrol boat probably decided to stay with the fleet, in case there were any more defections, but they must have radioed our likely course and speed.’
The aircraft passed low overhead then waggled its wings and turned back onto a course for Germany. The message was obvious: they were being ordered to follow.
‘We can’t go back,’ said Hedda.
‘Not going to,’ Johann replied, holding his heading. ‘Legally we are in international waters and not flying an ensign. If he fires on us it will be an act of piracy. Jan, Tadzio,’ he added urgently, ‘get those machine guns up into the wheel-house, just in case.’
The maritime patrol craft completed a half circle and came on again from their stern. This time, as it neared the fishing boat, there was a burst of fire from its nose machine gun, the rounds deliberately aimed about two hundred metres in front of their bow. The message could not have been clearer, but as if to emphasise the point, the seaplane executed a turn to make a low pass, just ahead of the wheel-house. They could see the pilot frantically stabbing a forefinger to drive home the order that they must reverse course. Finally, he made another quarter turn and flew back towards his original position, well aft of their stern.
‘Keep low, but move out on deck and cover it,’ Johann urged them, jabbing his right thumb over his shoulder. ‘The steel bulwarks will give you some protection, but rest the machine guns on the capping rail and sight on the ’plane. If it opens fire again, so do we.’
The aircraft was still travelling away from them as Jan, Tadzio and Hedda scrabbled aft along the side deck.
The pilot of the Heinkel was over-confident. Convinced that he had nothing to fear from an unarmed fishing boat, he decided that a burst onto his deck would persuade the skipper to change course. The dorsal gunner relaxed to watch the show.
‘If they open fire, take the port engine,’ Jan commanded. ‘I’ll take the starboard. As soon as we think we have a hit, switch to the cockpit.’
The Heinkel was not a modern aircraft – designed at the beginning of the decade, its wings were covered in a mix of plywood and fabric whilst the fuselage had just the latter covering a steel frame. Only the tail was protected with lightweight, metal sheeting.
The pilot had not seen the three of them take position. Neither had he noticed two small heads behind machine guns now steady in the aim.
Even as the first flashes from a 7.92 mm machine gun appeared from the muzzle, Jan and Hedda returned fire with two weapons of the same calibre. They had the advantage of a more stable platform. They could hear rounds thudding into the vessel behind them, but almost immediately the Heinkel’s port engine emitted a plume of black smoke. Seconds later, Jan’s target leaked a trail of light-coloured vapour – presumably from the cooling system. As soon as they switched their aim, the cockpit erupted in a shower of glass, metal and fabric. Then the Heinkel was overhead. As they watched it climbed into a vicious stall, a sure sign that the pilot was hit, before turning over a wingtip and diving almost vertically into the sea. They watched, spellbound, as it disappeared beneath the waves. Only when they turned to look forward did their relief turn to dismay. They were way off course. The wheel-house had taken a number of hits. Frantically they wrenched open the door. Johann lay face up on the wheel-house sole with sightless eyes – a round had smashed into the old mariner’s head.
Tadzio hunted through the lockers till he found a small anchor with a couple of metres of chain and about ten metres of light warp attached – presumably for use with the dinghy. Jan wrapped Johann’s body in a blanket then bound it with the anchor, chain and warp.
‘You need a hand?’ Tadzio asked as Jan collected the shrouded corpse in his arms.
‘He was my friend, I’ll do it,’ said Jan, ignoring the tears that threatened to blind him. All three of them stood silently at the rail as Jan, elbows on the mahogany capping, lowered his left forearm to drop Johann, feet and anchor first, reverently into the sea.
Turning back to the wheel-house he wiped his eyes with a sleeve. ‘Hedda,’ he asked, ‘I would be grateful if you could try to find a mop and bucket so that I can wipe the blood off the wheel-house sole.’
She returned a few minutes later, a stiff brush together with a mop and bucket in hand. This latter had a long lanyard attached to that it could be filled with seawater. It was already half full. ‘Let me,’ she offered, ‘you have done enough for your old friend.’
Whilst she removed the worst of the stain Jan studied the chart, which was undamaged on the navigation table alongside the wheel. Johann had ruled a compass line to pass from where they had left the fleet into the channel between the outlying island of Őland, off the south-east coast of Sweden, and the mainland. He had circled the port city of Kalmar on the mainland, opposite and about half-way up the length of the island.
‘Looks like this is where we were heading,’ Jan observed, tapping the end of a pencil on the chart. He’d written oK after three numbers adjacent to the course line. ‘Presumably that’s degrees Kompass,’ Jan said quietly, ‘which means he’s made all the corrections he can and that’s what we have to steer.’ Turning to head just west of north, he settled the fishing boat onto Johann’s course. Neither he nor Tadzio had any experience of steering a boat, but they soon learned to anticipate the effect of the waves and within a few minutes either of them could hold a more or less steady course.
Jan was particularly worried about the possibility of another air attack, but as the morning wore on they steamed under an empty sky. ‘From the way it went down,’ Tadzio suggested, ‘it could be that there wasn’t time to send a Mayday.’
Hedda produced a meal from Frau Brantis’ hamper. The bread was stale, but moistened with some oil from a tin of canned fish, the sandwiches were eaten gratefully. As the day wore on it became obvious that they would not make the Swedish coast before dark. Jan decided to throttle right back and wait till dawn, but not before they were cloaked in the protection of twilight.
At first light, they could make out both Őland and the mainland, their course taking them pretty much mid-channel. Thanks, old friend, thought Jan. Well done, and rest in peace. He had no difficulty in identifying the harbour and its entrance, the latter evident from several smaller vessels and one large freighter following the channel. Slowly, Jan eased back the engine revs till they barely had steerage way, then nudged the fishing boat into a space alongside the dock port-side-to in the southern area of the harbour.
Initially, they seemed to have attracted no attention, but Jan was still trying to work out what best to do when a bearded, late middle-aged man in what looked to be a harbourmaster’s jacket and cap appeared on the dockside. It seemed polite to move out onto the side deck to greet him. The official uttered some words, presumably in Swedish, that were completely unintelligible to Jan, but probably a question about who they were and where from. Instinctively, Jan decided not to reply in German.
‘Do you speak English?’ he asked quietly. Judging by the raised eyebrows, this had taken the harbourmaster by surprise.
‘I speak English,’ came the reply. ‘I learn when I was many years at sea.’
‘Can you help us, please?’ asked Jan. ‘I need to contact the British embassy as a matter of urgency.’
‘You had better follow me to my office,’ came the reply. ‘Your two companions must stay here, on the boat.’
Jan translated very softly. Tadzio and Hedda nodded vigorously to confirm their agreement.
Jan walked with the Swede along the dockside and into the port adm
inistrative office. It was empty save for a huge rather battered desk, a few chairs, a large cupboard and two filing cabinets. There was a metal pot on a wood burning stove set in one corner. ‘Would you like some coffee?’ came the unexpected invitation.
‘I would be extremely grateful,’ replied Jan.
His host produced two tin mugs from the cupboard and set the steaming drink on his desk in front of Jan. ‘Please,’ he invited, ‘then you had better tell me who you all are, where you have come from, what you are doing here in my port and why you need to contact the British embassy in Stockholm. After that, we’ll decide what to do with you. And by the way,’ he added, ‘I want the truth. And in case you were wondering, I heard your translation into Polish back there.’
Despite the assertion, the Swede’s tone of voice, Jan noticed, was in no way harsh or threatening. If anything, he detected a hint of sympathy. Jan decided to tell the truth – or at least some of it.
‘I was born in Poland,’ he began, ‘and I have genuine papers to prove it. Tadzio, on the boat, is my elder brother. He and Hedda have been running our family farm since the Germans invaded. On the way through they killed our father and sister. Fortunately, our mother was away visiting her sister in Bydgoszcz at the time. Hopefully she is all right, but we haven’t been able to contact her.’
He paused to let this sink in. The harbourmaster had listened intently but did not ask any questions. Now comes the real bombshell, thought Jan. The Swede’s reaction would probably decide their fate for the rest of the war.
‘I have to tell you,’ he went on, ‘that I was not in Poland when the war broke out. After some training in England, I returned there illegally a few months ago. I would prefer not to go into detail, but I can tell you that we are we no longer safe at the farm. Also, that the Germans are aware Hedda’s father was Jewish. At the time we fled Poland, they were in the process of deporting Tadzio to Germany as slave labour and Hedda off to their local barracks for a fate even worse. I think you understand what I mean…’ he tailed off.
The harbourmaster nodded sympathetically. ‘So, you have stolen a fishing boat and escaped to Sweden,’ he surmised.
‘We had some help,’ Jan confirmed, ‘a dear old friend who had been a professional mariner. But we were attacked by a flying boat on the way. Johann was in the wheel-house, which is made of wood. As you will have noticed, it has a lot of holes in it. Poor Johann died in the attack. We buried him at sea yesterday.’
‘But you survived,’ came the observation.
‘We did, the ’plane didn’t,’ Jan said bluntly. ‘But if it worries you, there are two machine guns and a few other weapons on board that we brought with us. And that’s about it,’ he concluded. ‘So now you know why I am desperate to contact the British embassy.’
The harbourmaster said nothing for several seconds. Finally, he seemed to come to a decision. Rising from his battered captain’s chair, he walked slowly round the desk and extended an arm. Jan stood automatically to shake the offered hand. ‘My name is Carl Magnusson,’ he said.
‘Jan Janicki,’ he replied automatically, taking the introduction as a good sign. Magnusson returned to his chair.
‘We Swedes are supposed to be neutral,’ he went on. ‘In reality, we are a nation living in fear. Most of our merchant fleet was caught outside of the Baltic at the outbreak of war, which personally I think was a good thing. But we can’t trade much with the outside world any more, so we have no choice but to trade with Germany. If our economy is to survive, we must import German coal. And they are desperate for our high-quality iron ore and ball bearings.
‘We have our protocols for dealing with foreign nationals,’ he went on, ‘but that does not mean that as ordinary citizens we don’t have our own feelings. German arrivals would be free to conduct their business in our neutral country. I don’t know what the correct procedure is for Polish nationals, but perhaps it might be better not to ask.’
At all costs, Jan had to avoid internment. ‘If it helps,’ he said quietly, ‘I also have German papers and so does Hedda – she is half-German through her father.’ It was a last throw of the dice.
Carl leant forward, his arms on the desk. ‘I want to say something,’ he replied, ‘and it’s an observation not a question, so I don’t want a reply. But I think you are either a member of the British armed forces, or you are working for their government – perhaps both.’
Jan nodded slowly to indicate that he had taken on board the question, but said nothing.
‘Our government is neutral,’ Carl told him, ‘but many of our people are not. Carla – my wife – and I have been blessed with only one child. Gustav is now twenty years old and a third officer in our merchant marine. His ship was caught outside the Baltic and is now on charter to the British merchant navy. Carla and I are entirely content with this, but we fear that in this war casualties, not only in the Royal Navy but also in those ships flying the red ensign, will be very high. Perhaps it will be the merchant marine who will suffer the most. Every day we pray that we will not receive a telegram with devastating news. So, in case you were wondering, Jan Janicki, I am going to help you.’
Jan felt an overwhelming sense of relief. ‘Thank you,’ he said with heartfelt sincerity. ‘So, could I use your ’phone to contact the British embassy?’
‘Too risky,’ came the reply. ‘We are never sure which of our lines might be monitored. And besides, unless you speak Swedish, you would never navigate our telephone system.
‘Give me a number,’ Carl offered, ‘and tell me what you want me to say. I’ll go to a public phone in the railway station and make the call. It would be better if, before I do that, we walk together back to your boat, and then please wait for me there.’
Carl Magnusson was as good as his word. An anxious hour later he returned with a satisfied grin and arms laden with shopping, which he dumped on the cabin table. ‘These will see you through till tomorrow,’ he told them, ‘you can’t have much if you have been at sea for a couple of days.
‘I got through all right,’ he told them, ‘although when I asked to speak with “Mr Dinks” the receptionist was a bit stupid at first, until she spoke with one of her colleagues.’ He paused, milking the moment. ‘She asked for my name. I just told her that I had information Mr Dinks would be desperate to receive, and if she didn’t put me through she would be looking for another job before morning.
‘Anyway,’ he went on, ‘Like you said, I told this Mr Dinks, although that’s obviously not his real name, that I had a message from a passenger he delivered last autumn who is now back in this country and anxious to make contact. I also told him that in total it was a party of three.’
‘And…?’ asked Jan anxiously.
‘We were both playing things pretty much by ear,’ Carl admitted, ‘but he suggested that we meet early tomorrow afternoon in the station car park. He said someone would be driving Adel Nilsonn’s taxi, and unless I recognised the vehicle that you could describe to me, I was not to make contact. But assuming that all went well, I would then guide the driver to where you could be collected.’
Jan had no difficulty in recalling the Volvo PV 52 de luxe saloon with diplomatic plates. Carl delved into his packages and produced a bottle of bränvin, or Swedish schnapps. Hedda produced four mugs and the Swede poured – generous measures, thought Jan.
‘Can I pay you for all this?’ asked Jan. ‘I still have some German marks that you could exchange.’
Carl shook his head. ‘But tell me,’ he asked, ‘What do you want me to do with your boat?’
‘My boat?’ queried Jan.
‘Well, I assume it wasn’t yours originally, but it seems to be now,’ came the reply. ‘You are going to be collected tomorrow, and please stay on board overnight, but you will be leaving in the morning.’ He waved an inverted hand to encompass the vessel. ‘What do you want me to do with her?’
It was no
t something Jan had even thought about. ‘What I could do for you,’ Carl offered, ‘is register her in Sweden. Not difficult for a harbourmaster and port captain with my contacts. None of us know what the war will bring, but for now she could be chartered out as an inshore fishing vessel – after all she’s pretty much a going concern.’
‘Could I leave all that to you?’ asked Jan. ‘If you can take care of the boat, we’ll split the profit fifty-fifty. If I can collect her again after the war, so much the better. If I can’t, I suspect it won’t matter anyway.’
‘Consider it done,’ said Carl, pouring another four measures.
He arrived early in the station car park and had no difficulty recognising the vehicle Jan had described to him. Although as he approached he was surprised to see an attractive young woman step out from behind the wheel. ‘I’m Mrs Dinks,’ she introduced herself and offered her hand. ‘Climb in, and you can guide me to my passengers.’
Seeing Carl in the front right hand seat, the Volvo was waved into the port. She parked, as directed, outside Carl’s office, where she waited until a few minutes later he returned with Jan, Tadzio and Hedda. From the brief conversation Mrs Dinks held with Carl Magnusson, she was obviously fluent in Swedish – probably a national.
Jan took the front passenger seat, Tadzio and Hedda in the back. ‘I’m afraid we might be a little fragrant by now,’ Jan apologised in English, ‘but we have been at sea for a few days and then not allowed off the boat.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ she replied easily in the same language and with a musical laugh. ‘We can always open the windows.’
Jan took another glance at their driver. She had the Nordic good looks of blonde hair, ice-blue eyes, high cheekbones and a film-star figure. If she really was Mrs Dinks, then she was a good three inches taller than her husband.
