Operation Armageddon

by Richard Freeman

  ‘Far from a billet-doux. It’s something about boats.’

  She passed the letter to Marie.

  ‘If only Raymond were here!’ was all Marie said.

  ‘Raymond?’ asked Madame as the door banged behind the fleeing Marie. And the note had gone with her.

  Later that day a listening station in England received the long-awaited coordinates of the cargo U-boat’s destination. The Defiance network had triumphed. Marie congratulated herself for having continued to practise her Morse code since Lucien’s death.

  39

  Vogel’s careful navigation along the Spanish coast had left the U-boat undetected by the Allies. With the boat surfaced at the coordinates in Order No. 1, the hour for opening the second sealed order approached. He left Ingmann on the bridge and went below to find Zweig.

  ‘Herr Hauptsturmführer, it’s time.’

  Zweig clicked his heels. A sneaking smile of satisfaction momentarily lightened his usually hard face. There was even a spring in his step as he anticipated the great event which, he had convinced himself, would bring him glory. Vogel’s face, on the other hand, showed the hard tense lines of his stressful command and the fear as to what horror the safe was about to reveal.

  ‘Well … I suppose we must … here goes.’

  Vogel inserted his part of the code.

  ‘Your turn.’

  With Zweig’s code entered, the two men reached to turn the handle.

  ‘Mine, I think,’ said Vogel as he exercised what he feared might be his last act of command on his boat.

  ‘Please,’ said Zweig, with the air of a confident and relaxed man.

  Inside the safe, was a pile of codebooks and other confidential documents. Vogel reached to the back, where the envelope poked out above the books. His pulse was now pounding faster than the boat’s diesels at top speed. He felt feint as he read the instructions on the outside of the envelope. He showed them to Zweig.

  ‘Okay? The right order?’

  ‘Yes. That’s it.’

  Taking a pencil from the tiny desk under the safe, Vogel slit open the envelope and dropped it onto the desk. Gingerly he unfolded a small sheet of paper, flattened out the crease and turned to read the order.

  ‘My God, it can’t be right!’

  He passed the order to Zweig.

  ‘It’s unusual,’ was all that Zweig said as he passed the order back to Vogel.

  ‘Unusual? It’s outrageous! It’s illegal! It’s—’

  ‘Still, it’s the Führer’s order,’ said Zweig. ‘It couldn’t be clearer. You are to take the boat down to the bottom right here at 6.00am. It will detonate itself at exactly 6.15am – high tide.’

  ‘I can read, thank you! It’s a crazy order. Commit suicide? Murder my crew? Did you ever hear of an order like it?’

  ‘Commander, you took an oath to the Führer. Now you know what it meant.’

  ‘Herr Hauptsturmführer, that oath did not commit me to obeying some silly, mistaken order. I must radio for confirmation.’

  ‘You’re forgetting, Herr Commander: no transmissions. And it’s no mistake. You can see now why you were not allowed to read the order until just before the attack.’

  ‘Attack? What attack? That’s another reason to believe it’s a mistake. What’s the damned point of detonating the boat here? There’s not an enemy vessel for miles. It’s a mistake – or worse, some fiendish enemy plot to sabotage the U-boat service. That’s it – someone has infiltrated the Kriegsmarine offices and planted this false order. People are always saying that there’s a Resistance network at the base. Why not one in Wilhelmshaven? This order proves it. I refuse to obey it.’

  ‘You refuse to obey an order from the Führer? Do you know what that means, Herr Commander?’

  Zweig put his right hand to his holster and made as if to withdraw his pistol.

  ‘I do. Even so, I might not be the only man on this boat to refuse the order. Do you know what that means, Herr Hauptsturmführer?’

  ‘Indeed I do,’ replied Zweig, who already had his men well spread out in anticipation of something like this.

  ‘You will excuse me, won’t you?’ said Vogel as he turned to go up the ladder.

  Zweig made a small stiff bow as he said, ‘Indeed, Commander.’ But Vogel was sure that the stress on that last word was there to emphasise “commander for now”. He disappeared up to the bridge.

  ****

  ‘Anything to report?’ he asked Ingmann.

  ‘No, sir, it’s very quiet tonight. I reckon the enemy is too busy on the North African coast to worry about us.’

  ‘Well, here’s something for you to worry about,’ said Vogel as he passed Ingmann the order. ‘Take it below. We’ll talk later.’

  This was an end that Vogel had never contemplated. Like any submariner he had imagined his slow asphyxiation in a submerged vessel or a rapid drowning as his boat was ripped open by a depth charge. Occasionally, he had even imagined his survival and his walking up to his own front door with the war finally over. But this? Suicide? Suicide and murder? This he had never imagined. He wanted to die with honour, yet he could not decide which of the options in front of him was the least dishonourable: his own pistol? The exploding boat? Or Zweig’s pistol?

  ****

  Down below, Ingmann took the order over to the small desk and read it under the tiny lamp.

  ‘Interesting, isn’t it?’ said Zweig from behind him.

  ‘So you’ve read it?’

  ‘Yes, with the commander.’

  ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘He refuses to obey the order. Says the Resistance have planted that order to get him to sabotage the boat.’

  ‘What do you think, Herr Hauptsturmführer?’

  ‘It’s genuine,’ said Zweig.

  ‘You mean—’

  ‘Yes, the commander must detonate the boat.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘There are ‘buts’ are there, Oberleutnant?’

  ‘Well … yes … I mean … Detonating here is just plain senseless – orders or no orders.’

  ‘We’re not here to question orders, Herr Oberleutnant. Only to obey.’

  ‘I see it now. That’s why you’re here – you and your men – to impose obedience to this diabolical order.’

  ‘It looks like it. Anyway, we’ll do our duty.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘You’ll see … soon enough.’

  Ingmann saw exactly how things stood – or would stand if he did not act. Soon – perhaps too soon – Zweig would have the commander under arrest. And he, Ingmann, would be under orders from Zweig.

  ‘Not if I have my way, Herr Hauptsturmführer,’ he muttered to himself.

  Making an excuse, Ingmann disappeared towards the officers’ quarters. Zweig saw him running back. He failed to anticipate what was about to happen. Ingmann disappeared up the ladder. Zweig did not worry. Ingmann was just as committed a Nazi as he was. What he did not realise was that there comes a point in everyone’s life when self-interest overrides all other loyalties.

  Ingmann slowed his dash as he went up the ladder and exited onto the bridge without making any noise. Vogel was staring ahead with his back to Ingmann. Much as Ingmann scorned the weak commander, he momentarily shrank from what he knew he had to do. He coughed gently. Vogel turned around.

  ‘So, what do you make of it?’ asked Vogel.

  Ingmann, his mind now made up, was determined to avoid any discussion. It was now just black and white.

  ‘It is true that you refuse to obey the order, Commander?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Is that your last word?’

  ‘My last word, yes.’

  ‘Unalterably your last word?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Commander Klaus Vogel, I, Oberleutnant zur See Oswald Ingmann, am assuming command of this boat and placing you under arrest. You are charged with treason by way of refusing to obey a legitimate order from the Führer himself.’

 
‘With my pistol as well!’ said Vogel.

  ‘It’s as good as any other for this distasteful job. Would you come below please?’

  Ingmann was surprised at how calmly Vogel took his arrest. He had expected a huge protest, even perhaps a violent attempt to wrest the pistol from him. What he could not have guessed was Vogel’s relief. For all his ruminating on the bridge Vogel had been unable to decide what to do. Ingmann had made the decision for him. He felt at ease with Ingmann now in command. He would keep that vile Zweig in check.

  Zweig was horrified to see the commander slinking down the ladder and meekly walking ahead of Ingmann’s pistol.

  ‘Bosun, handcuff this man to something,’ said Ingmann.

  He then went to the communications point, picked up the microphone and switched it on. A rough click spluttered from the speakers along the boat.

  ‘Attention! Attention! This is Oberleutnant zur See Ingmann speaking. Commander Vogel has been relieved of his duties. I am now in command of the boat. That’s all.’

  The seamen were puzzled by the news, but Ingmann’s announcement had been in such a matter-of-fact tone, that no one initially saw anything sinister in the change of command. Most assumed that Vogel was ill. It was only when reports spread through the boat that Vogel was handcuffed to a stanchion in the officer’s quarters, that rumours began to spread. Hindsight did its job in no time: the leave-less embarkation; the presence of the SS; no indication of the nature of the mission; radio silence; and now their captain under arrest. A growing sense that this was a mission with no return spread through the boat.

  Meanwhile, Zweig was in a state of apoplexy: that damned No. 1 had beaten him to taking command of the boat. Never had he been usurped in this way. While it was true that he had no explicit orders for this bizarre mission, he was certain that the authorities had intended the SS to take control. Still, Ingmann was a loyal Nazi … wasn’t he?

  With Vogel out of the way, Ingmann gave the bosun strict instructions to take no orders other than from him. He disappeared up the ladder to the bridge.

  Half an hour passed. Zweig looked at his watch. It was time for the new commander to begin the boat’s last dive. Thinking that perhaps Ingmann had lost track of time as a result of the trouble with the commander, he went up top.

  ‘Isn’t it time to dive, Commander?’

  ‘There’ll be no dive, Herr Hauptsturmführer.’

  ‘No dive, but—’

  ‘Why did I get rid of the commander?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Simple. If I hadn’t done it, you would. Then you would have assumed command, taken the boat down and executed that crazy order. So, I got in first. You don’t think that I – a career Kriegsmarine officer – am going to sink my first command within an hour of taking over, do you?’

  ‘You traitor, you swine, you’re worse than the commander. He was weak and couldn’t face his death. You … you are just … a defector … a deserter … a mutineer—’

  ‘All that might be true if that order really were from the Führer, but I don’t believe it is.’

  ‘It is. I can prove it.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I’ve got a box of fifty-plus Iron Crosses – one for each man – to be handed out before the detonation. So you see, the order is no mistake.’

  ‘That’s no proof that the mission is by the order of the Führer. Anyway, the Reich does not order suicidal attacks.’

  40

  Since the assumed sinking of the decoy U-boat, Travers had kept HMS Ideal on patrol in the approaches to the Strait of Gibraltar. There had been no further signals from London, so he keenly anticipated the ship’s recall to repairs and his own return to convoy escort work. Its routine and clear procedures suited his orderly mind. And his contribution to putting food onto tables, fuel into engines and raw materials into factories filled him with pride.

  Travers’ eagerness to return to his customary duties was enhanced by the thought of ridding himself of the interfering Bosanquet. How he hated what he called “intelligence bods”. They were forever despatching boats, ordering landings, and raiding obscure bits of the coast on the basis of some flimsy signal from the depths of enemy territory. Meanwhile, it was men like Travers who had to implement these orders. And the results? Well, the last few days were evidence enough: a perilous pick-up within shelling distance of a U-boat base; chasing a U-boat that was too well decoyed to be followed; and now, wallowing around in the seas off Gibraltar.

  And, as long as Bosanquet was on board, there would be the continued awkwardness of his being Sally’s former lover. Travers knew that he had been a fool to talk about her when the subject of theatres came up. It had never occurred to him that Sally had other connections with the navy. The thought that rumours of his affair might reach his wife had seemed too remote to imagine. Now he would have to take extra care with every naval officer whom he encountered.

  Travers’ cogitations were interrupted by Leading Telegraphist Daniel Haywood.

  ‘Admiralty message, sir.’

  ‘That’s a change. How long is it since our last news from the outside world?’

  ‘Three days, sir. And the air’s thick with stuff for all those ships at the landings.’

  ‘Yes, we are a bit forgotten. That’s all for now, Haywood.’

  Haywood, who had already decoded the signal knew that it was far from “all for now”. More like “all hell break loose”. He retreated to while away his watch by decoding signals destined for other ships. ‘You don’t want to get rusty,’ he told his subordinates, who generally preferred to read thrillers when things were quiet.

  Travers read the signal:

  “CARGO U-BOAT STILL ON COURSE FOR DESTINATION OFF MALAGA. FIND AND DESTROY AT ANY COST REPEAT AT ANY COST.”

  So much for any prospect of ridding himself of his disconcerting passenger. Convoy work was to be delayed yet again. Once more he was to chase after the elusive U-boat. He ordered a seaman to ask Mr Bosanquet to come to his sea cabin.

  Bosanquet had already resigned himself to defeat in the operation against Armageddon. Travers showed little interest in making any imaginative attempts at locating their prey. He was satisfied in merely plodding up and down his patrol route. Simone, Bosanquet mistakenly thought, was dead on the beach at Cap d’Enfer, and there had not been a peep from the Admiralty. That particularly worried him. In his fantasies of working as a lone agent, he had never given any thought as to what it felt like to be an abandoned agent. With no leads, no orders to fulfil and no contact from HQ he was forgotten. Perhaps, he wondered, his failure to prevent Armageddon would mark the end of his career in intelligence. So, when Travers called Bosanquet to his sea cabin, he expected to hear that the hunt was to be officially called off. The only uncertainty was where he would be dropped off and whether there would be any further orders for him.

  ‘Take a seat, Commander,’ said Travers, pointing to the three-legged stool. (Travers was sitting on the cot.)

  The tiny sea cabin, only used when the commander needed to be within seconds of the bridge, was never intended for two. Bosanquet balanced on the small stool, his back pressed against the low shelf that served as a desk, his knees near to touching those of Travers. The commander was holding a radio message transcript.

  ‘Orders to return, sir?’ asked Bosanquet.

  ‘Quite the opposite, Commander. London’s found your boat. It’s off the Spanish coast at Malaga. It seems we’re back in business.’

  ‘And what’s the actual order, sir?’

  ‘Sink the damned thing. Here, read for yourself.’

  The signal was short and routine enough except for the three repeated words.

  ‘Odd wording, though,’ said Travers. ‘What do you make of “at any cost”?’

  ‘I take it to be a reference to the fact that the boat is probably sheltering in Spanish waters and that you are to sink it nevertheless,’ said Bosanquet in a matter-of-fact voice.

  ‘That’s a hell of an order. If I get
run in by the Spanish, the Admiralty will be able to deny that I had any authority to do so.’

  ‘True,’ said Bosanquet. ‘And if you don’t attack, they can hang you at the yardarm for cowardice.’

  ‘This is no joking matter, Bosanquet. At least not for me with my head on the block.’

  Bosanquet had not expected Travers to take his remark so seriously. Before he could decide whether to apologise or suggest that Travers should relax a little, the latter continued: ‘Damned detestable the way the Spanish carry on. All that sheltering Axis ships, provisioning them—’

  ‘And,’ interrupted Bosanquet, ‘you don’t have much time to decide what to do. The signal says “Target expected to detonate explosives in current location at high tide tomorrow”.’

  Travers struggled to find a cast iron argument for avoiding the signal. He continued: ‘None of this Armageddon business has ever made sense right from the start. It doesn’t fool me, though. It’s some sort of hoax – to draw our attention away from some real attack. Or to capture a British vessel inside territorial waters.’

  ‘Travers, if you’d spent a few days at Cap d’Enfer as I did, you’d never say it was a hoax. Okay, it’s a puzzle. Okay, we may never know just what this is all about. All we know for certain is that it’s something deadly serious.’

  ‘I fear you’re right, Bosanquet. We’ll have to chase the damned thing. Even so, I still think it’s as wild as any wild goose chase ever was.’

  ‘Whatever it is,’ said Bosanquet, ‘I’m not going to miss our rendezvous.’

  And, knowing that he would not manage a wink of sleep that night, Bosanquet went off to the wardroom. He recalled that there were some discarded novels there. Perhaps one of them would provide enough excitement to while away the time to high tide at Malaga.

  Alone in the wardroom Bosanquet poured himself a gin, adding it to his tab. In one corner was a small set of built-in shelves with a miscellany of discarded books. Most were well-thumbed, several had cracked spines and some were only barely attached to their covers. There was a Priestley or two, some Buchans, some Pearl Buck and a Galsworthy. He settled for Priestley’s Angel Pavement and was soon into the fading fortunes of Twigg & Dersingham, the veneer company. Within an hour he was deep into Mr Golspie and his promises to revive the company. Yet he had the feeling that the tale would not have a happy ending. He put the book down, dozed for twenty minutes or so and woke, feeling stiff and lethargic. He got up, stretched every muscle that the confined space permitted, and walked around the room. He paused once again in front of the unenticing collection of discarded books.