The interrogation continued in this style for more than half an hour. Beck switched to and fro between demanding names and testing Bosanquet’s story. It was obvious that he was lying about his reasons for being at Cap d’Enfer. Beyond that, Beck could establish nothing. Eventually he tired of the futile interview.
‘You’re making a big mistake, Lapointe. I’ve given you a chance. Just a name and you’d be out of that door and on your way back to Marseille.’
‘I’ve nothing more to tell you,’ replied Bosanquet. ‘And, anyway, I’ve done with Marseille.’
‘I thought we could do this the easy way, Lapointe. But I see you wish to be difficult. Pity. We can make things very unpleasant for you, very unpleasant indeed.’
Bosanquet said nothing. ‘Such a pity,’ said Beck as he walked out of the door and called down the corridor: ‘Guard. Interview room!’
As Beck walked off, two guards arrived and escorted Bosanquet to a room at the end of the corridor.
Beck knew how to stage-manage his interrogations so, as Bosanquet was taken to the interview room, he saw a badly beaten up man being taken back to his cell.
‘Not very talkative, that one,’ said Beck.
He settled himself behind the table in the interview room and signalled to the guard to tie Bosanquet’s arms behind his back.
‘This is where we do the serious talking,’ he said. ‘It’s – how shall I say? – more intimate. Now, what can you tell me about the flask?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Are you sure about that? Perhaps you need a little help. Guards! Water!’
The two guards took Bosanquet away and held his head under water until he came near to passing out.
‘Well?’
‘Nothing … I … know … nothing.’
This performance went on for what felt like hours as Beck demanded to know who had put the explosives in the flask, who had given the flask to Bosanquet, and where he had met these people. It was only when Bosanquet finally passed out that Beck gave up.
Bosanquet had revealed nothing.
When he came round again, Bosanquet was back in his cell. Later, Beck came along and slid open the hatch.
‘I’ve tried my best to save you, but since you won’t talk, I’ll have to let the specialists take a turn. They’ve got more time and more dedicated facilities. We’ll hand you over tomorrow morning. If you change your mind and decide to talk—’
‘Talk? I’ve told you, I know nothing about this flask business.’
‘Monsieur Lapointe, don’t ever say I didn’t warn you.’
Beck slammed the hatch shut.
****
As Bosanquet shivered through the night, the bleakness of his situation was not what concerned him most. True, he felt as much terror as the next person at the thought of the SS trying to get him to talk. Yet, for him, the worst part was the knowledge that he had failed to do anything to stop the cargo U-boat from sailing. That was why London had permitted the security risk of his leaving the country. His only comfort on this point was that, as far as the Germans knew, James Bosanquet was quietly at his desk in London. They still had not the least suspicion that he was not French. And, if they did discover his true identity, there was always his suicide pill.
Then there was Marie, whose network had risked so much and achieved so little. Her big operation would soon be added to its list of failures.
Bosanquet fell back into a doze, which was later interrupted by screams from down the corridor. Then silence, sleep, and dawn.
24
Vizeadmiral Siegler had not given much thought to Operation Armageddon in the last day or two. Back in his office in Wilhelmshaven he grappled with the mass of paperwork. The U-boat losses for 1942 were double those for 1941 and the enemy was ever more effective in tracking down his fleet. Every day he faced mounting problems of finding more men – one-third would die on their first operational patrol – and more boats. He reckoned that he was spending more time battling the Wehrmacht and the Atlantic Wall, with their demands for construction workers and materials, than fighting the enemy. So, thinking that he had at least put Armageddon into the safe hands of the ambitious Helberg, he had turned to other matters. Then came the cable:
“FOR INFORMATION ONLY. SABOTAGE ATTEMPT SUCCESSFULLY THWARTED. HELBERG.”
Siegler picked up his phone and asked his secretary for an urgent line to Cap d’Enfer.
‘What’s this outrageous cable?’
‘I thought you’d like to know that we are on top of things,’ replied Helberg.
‘On top of things! Things are on top of you! How dare you allow a sabotage attempt on the cargo boat? Right under your nose.’
‘Sir, may I respectfully remind you of the problems we have with base security?’
‘No you damn well may not! I warned you: if security’s that bad it’s up to you to protect the boat and the explosives.’
‘And I have done what I can—’
‘Well it’s not enough,’ yelled Siegler.
‘What do you want me to do? Start giving orders to Wohlman’s guards? They’re not my men, you know.’
‘Of course I know. I don’t care a fuck as to how you protect that boat. Just damn well do it. Haven’t you got it into your head yet? This is the Führer’s operation. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?’
It did, but Helberg was too intelligent to tell a Nazi like Siegler just what he thought of the Führer’s operational capacities.
‘Anyway, Helberg, I’ve decided we can’t risk having that boat around anymore. You’ve got twenty-four hours to get it to sea.’
Siegler, as an ex-U-boat man, knew how operationally difficult this order was, so he added some emollient remarks about giving the boat a heroic send-off. Then he ended the call with an abrupt: ‘I’ll be there for the sailing. Good day!’
The line went dead.
Helberg, dazed by this sudden change of plan, sat motionless with the receiver still in his hand. He did not know whether to swear at Siegler, swear at the near impossible order, or rejoice that the wretched boat would soon be off his patch. And was Siegler’s decision to come to the departure a further sign of his lack of faith in him?
Meanwhile, there was someone else who needed to be told the startling news. He raced down the stairs to find Kapitän zur See Klaus Vogel.
Helberg found the commander-to-be of the cargo U-boat, holding an unread newspaper in his left hand while sitting on an upturned barrel. He was lost in thought as he stared out to sea.
‘Wife? Girlfriend?’
‘No, my son. Things look bad for us in North Africa,’ said Vogel as he slapped the newspaper with his right hand. ‘I haven’t seen him for two years. Went off a boy; must be a man now.’
‘So?’ asked Helberg.
‘Three years of war and where’s it got us? Look at us two: years of fighting in the Atlantic. All those ships sent to the bottom. And victory? As far away as ever. This war is going to take us all – you, me, my son – and for nothing.’
‘You’re done in, that’s all,’ said Helberg.
‘Damn right! My men had barely set foot on the Brest quayside when they were bungled into trucks. Destination Cap d’Enfer. No leave. Just a shower and a haircut. You know the state men are in after weeks in a U-boat – they’re crawling around the base like sleepwalkers and the lice are crawling around their bodies as if they were permanent residents.’
‘Okay, so you’re tired. Your men are tired. The Sixth Army is tired—’
‘So stop grousing?’
‘Exactly.’
Vogel assumed that the conversation was over, yet Helberg was still hovering over him.
‘Was there something else?’
Helberg nodded. He walked over to another empty barrel, slowly dragged it towards Vogel and positioned it with lots of fussy little adjustments. When he finally sat down, he avoided Vogel’s eyes as he feigned an interest in some quarrelsome seagulls.
‘Yes, there was … Bad news …
for you, I mean.’
‘My son?’
‘No. Your boat. You’re to sail within twenty-four hours. Vizeadmiral’s orders.’
‘Hell! And the repairs? You know me. I always keep my boats in good order. And now I am to command a heap of scrap metal.’
‘I’ve done what I can, Vogel. It’s Siegler. He demands “sail as is”. He’s in a panic about the attempted sabotage.’
‘And my men, half dead on their feet!’
‘There’s one consolation,’ said Helberg. ‘The Vizeadmiral says you are to have a big send-off – like the old days – champagne, flowers, dignitaries, the band. He’s even coming down to take part in the celebrations.’
Vogel stood up and, with a well-aimed and powerful kick, sent his barrel spinning across the quay and into the grey sea below. Turning towards Helberg, his face red, his straining blood vessels in his neck near to bursting, he screamed: ‘Is that how we wage war nowadays? With frippery?’
Helberg was relieved that Vogel did not wait for a reply. He had none to give.
****
The seamen, who had not been allowed off the base since their arrival from Brest, were surprised when they were ordered to the mess hall for a special announcement. ‘Reckon we’re to get some leave after all,’ said one seaman as they waited.
They were surprised when Helberg, rather than Vogel, entered the hall. Standing on a dining table, he talked of ‘this critical moment in the war’ and the brave men who were defending the Reich at Stalingrad and in North Africa.
‘Your job is to halt the enemy before he reaches that continent,’ he told them. ‘The enemy comes in ships, his supplies come in ships, his fuel comes in ships. Soon you will be in the Mediterranean where your boat will deal that shipping a blow from which the enemy will never recover.’
The men initially received the news of their immediate departure in near silence. The silence quickly changed to a restless whispering. Helberg knew that the uneasy exchanges that followed his remarks were not the renewal of the seamen’s mundane conversations. It was their suppressed expressions of mutinous exasperation. He heard, as he expected, mutters of the ‘And where’s our bleeding leave?’ variety. Fortunately, he did not hear the exclamations of ‘Mediterranean! Fucking Gibraltar!’ It was the one near-impassable place in the vast oceans. To attempt the passage past Gibraltar was worse than risking half a dozen rounds of Russian roulette. Helberg left in haste, without even asking the men if they had any questions.
After his departure, huddled conversations broke out as the men vented their anger at their loss of leave, and shared their theories as to what the mystery mission held for them. The one thing that they did not talk about was their fear. Every departure in a U-boat in wartime left the men filled with trepidation. When the hatches closed and the command ‘Flood!’ was given, they entered a different world: a silent world, trapped between the mortal sea below and the deadly enemy above. It was in that first immersion of a mission that the men thought of lost comrades, of the times that they had so nearly failed to return home, of the times that they had abandoned boat and sat on the ocean in dinghies. Not for nothing were the boats called iron coffins.
****
Vizeadmiral Siegler arrived the next day. His previous visit had been over-shadowed by the security problems on the base. This time he was elated at the prospect of blessing the boat’s departure. He would be able to report it personally to the Führer. In his exultant mood he dispensed with his normal entourage and came in his car with just a driver and one guard. On arrival, he went directly to Helberg’s office. He grilled the base commander about progress on the repairs, the loading and storage of the explosives, and the readiness of the crew.
‘A dismal state of affairs,’ he concluded.
Helberg did not argue. In a few hours he would be free of the U-boat and able to put his workmen back onto his patrol boats. Their ship sinkings would be a credit to him and provide his passport out of this infernal base. With luck, he would never meet Siegler again.
Siegler continued: ‘I agree it’s a tough mission for Vogel. At least he’ll have the SS to assist him.’
‘The SS? What do they know about U-boats?’
‘That’s not the point. It’s what they know about keeping men in line that matters.’
‘That’s Vogel’s job, surely. They’re his men.’
‘True. But when he opens his second stage orders in a few days’ time, he’ll be grateful he’s got the SS to back him up.’
‘Does he know about this?’
‘Not yet. It’s your job to tell him. He’s your man.’
****
‘That’s most irregular,’ said Vogel. ‘Can’t I speak to him about it?’
‘He won’t talk to you – says that’s my job.’
‘How dare he! I’ve never had any trouble with my men.’
‘I know. But what can I do about it?’
‘Is that all you can say? Do we just have to accept this impertinence?’
‘It’s orders, Vogel. Orders.’
‘Well, didn’t he at least explain why he thinks I need this “assistance”?’
‘Yes … he did. He said that you would understand when you open your second stage orders.’
‘What the hell are they?’
‘I’m not allowed to know. The secrecy is the Führer’s will – no questions permitted.’
‘Helberg, I’ve got a nasty feeling about this. Is it some party business?’
‘Like?’
‘Assassinating one of the party bosses, or something like that.’
‘Who knows? You’re right, though. There’s a foul stench hanging over Armageddon …’
25
It was hard to say which was the more explosive aspect of the U-boat: its cargo or its assortment of officers.
Klaus Vogel, the easy-going captain, had been taken off patrols because he lacked the killer instinct. With few sinkings to his record, neither officers nor men wished to serve under him on patrols. Nevertheless, he was a fine navigator and was single-minded in his determination to keep his boat in good mechanical order – an ideal choice for a cargo operation.
Try as he would, Vogel could make no sense of his orders, nor the extraordinary way in which the cargo had been stowed. He had expected neat piles of crates, tightly packed and strapped down. Instead the boxes and packages were all over the place. And the quantity!
Then there was the strange sailing order that Helberg had passed to him as he boarded. He would be shadowed at first by another submarine from La Rochelle which would act as a decoy should an enemy destroyer appear. He was to maintain radio silence, while a range of small patrol craft would send out decoy signals for the first day to give the impression that his boat was moving west.
As to the object of his mission, this would not be revealed until he opened Order No. 1 when five miles out to sea. Even then there was still Order No. 2, which was to be opened in the manner set out in Order No.1. These strange orders and the decoys – unheard of in a cargo operation – were proof that the mission was of the highest importance.
Vogel was not alone in his apprehension. First watch officer Ingmann had his own reasons for resenting his assignment to the operation. Cargo missions lacked the glamour of patrols. Whatever the perils you faced, there were no sinkings to report when you returned to base. And it was sinkings that counted in career terms. Cargo work was an unwelcome impediment in his ambition to gain the command of a patrol boat.
Into this mix came Hauptsturmführer Karl Zweig. Neither Vogel nor Ingmann welcomed the presence of the SS on their boat. The SS in the form of Zweig was even less welcome. He had grown up in the Black Forest, where his father was a blacksmith who hammered his anvil in the day and beat his wife and children in the evening. From this brutal household had come the vulgar and arrogant Zweig.
Zweig never had a proper job until the Nazis took him on. He was the perfect recruit, offering unswerving loyalty to the party and the Führer.
When Siegler asked the local party officers to pick out a man who would obey orders – any order, he emphasised – they had no hesitation in naming Zweig. It was his arrival on the boat that most disturbed the two commanders.
‘Gives me the creeps, that man,’ said Ingmann.
‘Me too,’ said Vogel.
‘Why’s he here?’
‘To “assist” me.’
‘What would an SS man know about a U-boat?’
‘Nothing. That’s what really bugs me. But Siegler says that I will need him for Armageddon. The operation which, apparently, needs the SS on board to force the men to—’
‘Hell! You mean—’
‘That we might be on an illegal mission … a war crime sort of thing …’
‘And if we are?’
‘In that case, you and I must stick together, Ingmann. We’re Kriegsmarine, remember, not SS,’ concluded Vogel.
‘Yes, but—’
‘But what, Ingmann?’
‘I will obey you to the fullest extent of your command, Herr Kapitän. But, if this thing is an order from the Führer, that’s a different matter. Any command from the Führer releases me from my duty to you. Until then, you can count on me.’
In a flash, Vogel realised that he was effectively alone in an iron coffin of foul intrigue.
Two hours later the boat cast off. Vogel’s men were lined up on the boat’s deck under some faded and fraying bunting, strung out on the jumping wires. (The SS men were out of sight below. They had no wish to associate themselves with a bunch of scruffy sailors.) The band played Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries while Vogel stood to attention, his arm outstretched in a Nazi salute. His normally gently smiling face was contorted by his premonition that there would be no return to Cap d’Enfer. In the background he could hear the cheers of the seamen on the dockside. They, thought Vogel, would soon be back at sea in their patrol boats. He doubted that, hazardous as such patrols were, they would face the perils that lay ahead for him.
As the boat departed, Siegler turned to Helberg: ‘So, Herr Kapitän, congratulations are in order. You have made an outstanding success of getting that boat to sea. I knew you could do it.’
Operation Armageddon Page 11
