Shadow Of The Wolf

by Michael Parker

  Ziegel cut him off angrily. "Listen! Once I have surrendered to the Royal Navy my war is over. I will not be able to fight for my country again. It shames me to think I will have been captured and rendered useless.” He paused for a moment, letting his anger subside. “For many years I worked for a Norwegian whaling company. I know North Cape Island extremely well. I know the people. If I swim ashore I stand a better chance of success than you. I know where the radio transmitter is on the island. I could hide until it is safe to use it. With your codes I can signal my position and arrange a pick up." He paused again and lowered his head. Then he looked directly at Schafer and spoke almost in a whisper. "There is someone I could contact for sanctuary if my position became desperate. This person is not a sympathiser, just someone who could be coerced if necessary, no more than that.".

  "I understand," Schafer said. "But what of me?"

  "You and I will change places," Ziegel told him. "My first officer will cooperate. He will surrender on your behalf because of your injuries." He arched his eyebrows. "Concussion perhaps? I am sure you are well trained in the art of subterfuge."

  Schafer considered it most carefully and could see the risks Ziegel would be taking were not as great as his own. "It might work, Lieutenant," he agreed. "It might work. It is important that you conceal the papers in a place from which they can be easily recovered." He opened his hand and held it forward towards the captain "You may not survive. You may even get caught, but those papers must be safe. Their location should be somewhere that is secure but is easy to locate."

  Ziegel smiled. "I am a whaler. The Blue Whale sounding draws my attention constantly. It is easy to locate."

  Schafer missed the correlation. "You must transmit carefully. Use the codes wisely."

  Ziegel stood up. "But of course. Now I must prepare for our surrender. Scuttling charges must be laid. The crew must be briefed, as indeed must my first officer." He looked at his watch. "Wait here," he ordered. "I will return shortly."

  He went through to the control room where the atmosphere seemed to have deteriorated frighteningly. The men were sweating freely and looked exhausted. Ziegel was happy that their suffering would soon be over. He spoke softly.

  "We surface in twenty minutes. I expect the British to be in attendance. We will not fight." He turned to his first officer. "Rudi, have the word passed among the crew. All except key personnel are to be assembled here in fifteen minutes. I wish to see you in my cabin in five minutes. That is all."

  *

  The U-boat surfaced in an explosion of white water and frightening speed. The bow lanced through the dull grey sea and settled in a wallowing dive with the grace of a floundering duck. The waves rolled over the narrow catwalk and white foam poured out from between the outer casing and the pressure hull. She rolled heavily, her bow down with the weight of the water in the forward torpedo room. Then, in grand defiance, she settled to ride the waves with a kind of flamboyant elegance.

  The black cross on her conning tower was scarred from the ravages of the sea. The number on her side was chipped and flaking. Below it the metal was rusting; it ran in streaks down her sides. Water poured through the scuppers on the bridge as the hatch wheel spun. The heavy cover came up and hooked into the latch.

  The first officer scrambled through the hatch followed by a weak and limping Schafer. He was wearing the brown serge battledress blouse and distinctive white cap cover favoured by all U-boat commanders. Ziegel came up but remained out of sight.

  Off their port beam, one thousand yards away, the navy corvette had turned towards them. Its signal lantern winked out at them flashing the command to 'stand to'. One by one the submarine's crew filed through the hatch coaming to clamber down on to the rolling catwalk. They formed up in line standing correctly to attention.

  Schafer watched them from the bridge. Beside him the first officer stood ready to surrender the crew. Schafer laid a hand on Ziegel's shoulder. Ziegel looked up from his crouched position.

  Without stooping, Schafer spoke to him. "As soon as you can, transmit your presence on the island. Use my code name. When I have contacted my section through the normal Red Cross channels they will stand by on a listening frequency. It could take two or three weeks."

  "You are worrying," Ziegel told him. "We have already gone over this."

  Schafer laughed nervously. "Yes, I am sorry." He squeezed Ziegel's shoulder. "Good luck and God go with you. Heil Hitler."

  Ziegel checked himself again. Beneath his dark blue sweater he had the bulky, waterproof package strapped securely to his waist. He carried a kapok lifejacket which he intended to put on once he was in the water and at a safe distance from the corvette.

  The sky was dull and overcast which gave him excellent cover in the murky sea. It was early dawn and he was convinced he would not be seen. The first officer had been able to position the U-boat so that Ziegel could drop from the conning tower into the water, and do this out of sight of the Royal Navy Corvette.

  He landed in the water and disappeared beneath its choppy surface and could feel the cold instantly creeping around his skin. He had both arms folded beneath the package which was covered by one of the crewmen’s tunic. He surfaced and turned in the water, looked towards the north, scanning for North Cape Island. He soon picked out the rising silhouette of Blue Whale Mountain, its peak thrusting upwards towards the grey clouds.

  Ziegel knew he was risking a great deal. Although North Cape Island looked reasonably close, he knew it would be at least six or seven kilometres away. Schafer had tried to manoeuvre the U-boat so that the current could drag it closer to landfall in order to give Ziegel a fighting chance.

  The sea was moderate. A slight swell was running but the current was favourable. He felt good, elated because he was still fighting for the Reich. He was a strong swimmer and was now convinced there was nothing to prevent him reaching the sanctuary of the island.

  He pushed out carefully, kicking his legs in a scissor action. The swell lifted him gently, carrying him forward. He didn't glance back at the submarine but concentrated on his breathing and was careful not to extend himself too much so that he could conserve his energy. He had been in the water about thirty minutes when he heard the dull, explosive crumps as the scuttling charges exploded. He trod water and looked back at the submarine. Its conning tower was plainly visible but its hull was hidden from him. He watched as the tower began to tilt until it disappeared from view. He knew it was over. Now his destiny lay on that remote island and the dark, rising shape of Blue Whale Mountain.

  *

  Schafer was unmoved when he heard the scuttling charges go up. He glanced back from the corvette’s launch and glowered at the spent vessel, blaming it for his loss. He was helped on board the corvette where a blanket was draped round his shoulders. The first officer spoke on his behalf, addressing a Royal Navy lieutenant in accordance with unabashed tradition, surrendering honourably as vanquished to victor.

  The preliminaries were conducted with typical British correctness. Schafer was taken to the sick bay along with the other injured crewmen where their injuries were attended to. He was advised that, following a period of rest, he would be taken to the wardroom for questioning.

  Schafer fell asleep soon after that. Sedation and mild shock combined to send him into a deep sleep. When he woke it was dark. The sick bay was quite small and he could not remember what he was doing there. He threw back the covers as the throbbing pulse of the powerful screws reminded him of the events that had occurred. He sat still, recalling what had happened, remembering with bitterness his cruel luck. He thought for a moment of Leutnant Ziegel and admired the man’s bravery, and his foolishness. He doubted whether the man would survive, or even could survive in such an inhospitable environment.

  Suddenly the room lurched violently as the corvette heeled over. Schafer was thrown from his bunk. The screws thrashed violently and sent an awesome, juddering motion through the entire ship.

  He reached for the bedrail fo
r support when a pulverising explosion ripped through the boat. He was hurled forward as the impact of the explosion brought the ship to a halt. Then all hell seemed to break loose. Klaxons sounded on the decks and he could hear men running and shouting. He felt his way through the darkness, groping round the sick bay.

  The deck tilted beneath his feet and he slipped away from the bed. He struck out blindly, grabbing at anything in his desperation. He felt a blanket at his feet and he scooped it up. He threw it round his shoulders like a cape and dropped to his knees, scrabbling at the floor to gain some tenuous hold on the canting deck.

  Another explosion ripped through the corvette as another torpedo struck. He could sense the boat was beginning to settle in the water and he screamed in terror. The two other injured crewmen in the sick bay screamed and shouted with him, and their fears multiplied until they were reduced to victims of abject fear.

  Then suddenly, and quite unexpectedly, the door opened. Framed in the doorway by a strange, iridescent light which flickered stood a rating. He was holding on to the door for support.

  "Right gents," he said cheerily. "Time we was away."

  In his hand he held a torch. He flicked the powerful beam on and shone it round the room. "One of your kraut mates has buggered us, so we've got to go for a swim."

  He stepped into the sick bay. "Ah, there you are sir," he said as the light fell on the battered Schafer. "Now if you can walk on yer own, I'll help your mates."

  He pulled Schafer to his feet and pushed him gently towards the door. Then he calmly returned to the bay and helped the other two injured men out. He assembled the three of them on the poop deck and told them apologetically, that it was up to them now; there were others who needed help.

  Events after that were dreamlike. Schafer could remember a lot of noise and people shouting. Then he was in the water and somebody was pulling him into a boat. Through the maelstrom he was consciously aware of people around him, but it all added to the unreality of the situation.

  How long he stood on the deck of the doomed corvette, or how long he spent in the water, he didn't know. Time became meaningless where nothing made sense. Somehow he held on, unconscious of the wounds that threatened to overcome him, blindly obeying those words of command that filtered through to his numbed brain until he knew he was safe.

  He woke again for the second time in a few hours to experience that curious sensation of déjà vu: the bunk, the soft glow of a bulkhead light and the quiet murmur of powerful engines. He sat up. Somebody moved in the small cabin and said something to him. Then they left. He lay back on the bed and wondered where he was, unconcerned.

  Some minutes later two men returned. One of them wore the uniform of a senior lieutenant in the German Kriegsmarine. The light in the cabin came on and the officer looked down at Schafer.

  "Ah, you are awake, Lieutenant Ziegel, good day to you. I hope you are well?" He watched Schafer sit up. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Kapitän Leutnant Hessler, commander unterseeboot one zero seven."

  Schafer couldn't believe it. Hessler was a legend in his own lifetime in Germany; one of the heroes of the Reich.

  "You are most fortunate," Hessler said. "It seems we have plucked you from the clutches of the British although I admit that at the time I was unaware of your presence on the corvette. Or that of your crew," he added. "What there is of it I am afraid. I am most dreadfully sorry." He brightened a little. "Still, you are awake and we can talk. If you feel fit enough, perhaps you will join me in my cabin." He saluted and turned towards the door.

  "Kapitän Hessler, where are we?" Schafer asked.

  Hessler paused. "We are somewhere between Scotland and Norway. It is why I stopped to pick up survivors, because we are going home." He smiled. "Within forty-eight hours you will dance with the frauleins in Germany."

  Schafer smiled, but it faded quickly. "Kapitän Hessler, I am not Leutnant Ziegler. My name is Bruno Schafer. Hauptsturmführer Schafer, Kriegsmarine Sturmabteilung, and I have more important matters to attend to than the frauleins in Germany." He threw back the covers and swung his legs round. "I have a mission to fulfil Lieutenant: one that begins the moment I reach the Fatherland."

  TWO

  Four weeks later

  Maura Lucas lay on her bed listening to the sounds of the fading storm. Sleep was a stranger to her that night. The rain had stopped and no longer rattled noisily against the small windows of her cottage. Occasionally a weak flicker of light signalled the distant lightning, but the rolls of thunder were thin and all but a memory.

  She looked around the walls of her room, its vague shapes just visible in the shadows. She thought of her son, Billy serving in the Royal Navy. He was barely nineteen but like so many young men he had been brought forcibly to maturity by this cruel and terrible war.

  She wished he was here now, just to talk, to ease her loneliness. Sometimes she was able to shut him from her mind and find release in deep sleep. And when sleep would not come she would seek comfort in a bottle. But if the amber nectar failed to work, she would wrap a coat around her and walk along the foreshore.

  She rolled over, pushed the covers away and sat up on the edge of the bed. A flicker of light illuminated a small, gilt-framed picture of young Billy. He had been eighteen when it had been taken. He looked such a fine boy in his uniform. She was so proud of him. She got up and walked over to the window and pulled aside the heavy black-out curtain covering the window. She stood there for several minutes staring out into the darkness, her arms folded across her body and watched as the storm moved away, barely visible as the lightning flashed weakly in the distance.

  Maura decided there was little to be gained by remaining in her bedroom unable to sleep. There was no bottle in the house either, so she would have to take her fear for a walk: the fear of what might happen to Billy. She went through to the front door of the cottage and lifted her topcoat from the hook behind the door. She pulled it on and stepped out into the night.

  Although the wind was brisk it was from the south, which meant it was not too cold. The clouds were moving sufficiently to let the moonlight flood the ground in patches, but she carried a torch with her from habit. She went down the small garden path and out through an open gate.

  Maura's cottage lay on the eastern side of Blue Whale Mountain. She could walk to a small beach from her cottage in ten minutes along a route she often used, and one with which she was quite familiar. Although the wind was in the south-west quarter, the shore line towards this end of the island turned north before curving round into a large bay. This meant the sea would be relatively calm and the beach in reasonable shelter; almost like a lee shore.

  She walked carefully over the soft, springy grass, and had no difficulty in keeping to the track. Already the task of walking in the half-light was beginning to take her mind off young Billy and she could feel the tension draining from her body.

  The beach to which she was heading was one of the few on the island that could be described as such. Most of the island’s coastline was defined by shallow cliff edges and rocky, scree covered slopes. This particular stretch of the coastline, as small as it was, squeezed itself tightly between high cliffs and was one of the few places that trapped the sun during their brief summers.

  She stepped off the soft scree and on to the beach when something attracted her attention. It was a movement that interrupted the patterns filtering through to her eyes. She stopped and looked to a point about one hundred yards away. The dark, colourless sea reflected the silver moonlight in a myriad of coruscating shapes. Maura peered carefully at what she thought was a boat cutting through the spindrift, its silhouette picked out sharply as it slid through the moonlit patches on the surface. It was low and quite flat, like a rubber dinghy. Maura could see several figures in it, all sitting, or kneeling. One of them, in the prow, was kneeling quite upright, as though he was guiding the others to the shore. She frowned and walked towards the point where she expected the dinghy to beach, quickening her footsteps
. Although it didn't help, she stooped slightly, peering forward in the manner of someone whose eyesight is failing. She stopped as the leading figure in the boat jumped from the craft as it came ashore. He turned back towards the boat. Maura could see he had a rope in his hands. It went taut as he held the boat. The remainder of the silhouettes clambered out of the boat and together they dragged the dinghy to a high point on the beach. Maura thought there was about twenty men that clambered out of the small boat, and by their body language they all looked to be behaving surreptitiously.

  The figure who had been kneeling in the prow cast around as though searching for something; perhaps trying to figure out the best way off the beach. From what Maura could see it looked as though he was limping, although not in a pronounced way. She hurried forward, not suspecting for one moment that the strangers may be hostile. She made no attempt to tread as softly as she could, so it was no surprise when the leader heard Maura's footsteps as she approached.

  He turned towards her and held his hand up to the men behind him who were coming up the beach. They all stopped immediately at his command. Maura hesitated and then threw caution to the wind. When she reached him she could see that he was wearing the traditional trousers and jersey of a merchant seaman. There was no cap on his head. He seemed to relax as Maura stopped in front of him. She could not see his face clearly, nor the expression that passed over it. He lifted his hand and touched his forehead in a form of salute. He spoke to her in a language she didn't understand but thought she recognised as Swedish.

  "I'm sorry, I speak English," she said. "Who are you? Where are you from?"

  He turned and spoke to his men quickly and quietly, his words exuding authority. Then he spoke to Maura. "I apologise. This land, where are we?"

  "You are on North Cape Island," she told him. "It is off the north-west coast of Scotland."