by John Harris
Situated in the hills, Bonai was away from the curiosity of the native tribes and the coastal Creoles. There was a stream giving fresh water and it was within easy reach of Freetown. Officially, the men there were the Sierra Leone Land Survey Company. Unofficially, they were nothing of the kind.
Several months before, while running a school for U-boat officers in the Baltic, a Westphalian U-boat expert, Kapitänleutnant Gunther Heidegger, had been ordered to Berlin by Admiral Dönitz. Heidegger was one of the lucky U-boat captains from the first wave of lone-wolf operators of 1939 and 1940. His contemporaries, Prien, Endrass, Schepke, Kretschmer, were all gone by this time, either dead or prisoners of war, and only Heidegger and a few more had survived the battle of the Atlantic to teach the newcomers their trade.
As he’d arrived at naval headquarters in the Tirpitz Ufer, Heidegger had been warned by an aide to be careful. Because of the recent British raid on St Nazaire, Admiral Dönitz had had to give up his headquarters near Lorient in France and was temporarily in Berlin.
‘And Onkel Karl doesn’t like it,’ the aide whispered.
He had led the way along the corridors past closely guarded rooms where batteries of teleprinters received signals from listening stations all over Europe, from as far north as Finland to a clandestine one operated, with the connivance of the Spanish government, near Seville.
Slightly built and sharp-featured, the admiral was looking irritated and Heidegger had wondered what was coming and if he were to be sent back to sea. Successes came more sparingly these days and perhaps Dönitz was considering using a few of the old hands to stiffen the new boys. Heidegger had no wish to go because he had recently married and marriage was inclined to dampen a man’s ardour for taking risks.
Dönitz had come quickly to the point. ‘You must be well aware,’ he said, ‘that General Rommel in North Africa now feels he has the measure of the British there.’
Heidegger had smiled. ‘Indeed, sir.’
Dönitz’ expression didn’t slip. ‘It’s his intention to throw them out of North Africa,’ he went on, ‘to occupy the Suez Canal zone and push on towards India. His first move will take him to the gates of Cairo itself.’
After the British defeat in Libya, it seemed very possible and, because Dönitz wasn’t a man given to boasting, Heidegger had been prepared to accept what he said.
‘But, of course,’ Dönitz had continued, ‘the British will make every effort to see the Afrika Korps doesn’t succeed – indeed, that they are thrown out of Africa themselves.’
‘That would seem obvious, sir.’
‘We have news, in fact, that they’re already preparing counter-attacks and have been scraping the barrel in England and even in the United States. We have information of new tanks, new anti-tank guns, new aircraft, new self-propelled guns. However, since the Mediterranean was closed to them by the Luftwaffe, convoys initiated in New York, Nova Scotia, and the Clyde now have to go via the Cape of Good Hope and, because they’re short of escorts, they meet in the Atlantic and proceed together to the only good watering and supply harbour on the West Coast of Africa – Freetown, in Sierra Leone. I need hardly say that these convoys are of vital importance to the British.’ Dönitz sat back in his chair and gestured. ‘Though the air cover provided – over the Atlantic by the British is still incomplete, Hudsons and Catalinas are now operating from Gibraltar, and Sunderlands and Catalinas from Freetown, so that sinkings off the bulge of Africa have declined. However, I expect this to be only temporary because escorts are not always provided just there and ships are still sometimes routed independently, and I intend an offensive off Cape Town to draw away more ships of the Royal Navy.’
Heidegger had listened quietly, wondering how all this affected him.
‘British naval resources,’ Dönitz went on quietly, ‘are already fully strained by the Atlantic and, with the war now extended to the Far East, they can’t expect much help from the Americans, so that, with demands from other theatres, their long-range aircraft in West Africa have been reduced in numbers.’ He leaned forward. ‘Meanwhile the Vichy authorities in French West Africa, Guinea and Senegal are growing concerned about the shortage of supplies from Europe and would be glad to see the war brought to an end.
‘General Hatziger, the Commander-in-Chief, in Southern French Guinea, is a known sympathizer. Moreover, black French subjects move regularly across the border into Sierra Leone and, since the British there seem to take little notice of them they obviously include some of our agents. And, because there’s still a telephone service between Sierra Leone and French Guinea, the problems of communication don’t arise. There are high hills along the coast, and a coast-watching service and a listening station have been established near Freetown. Now, as you doubtless know, British codes and ciphers are being read by the Beobachtungsdienst, our deciphering service, so that we know the position, course and speed of all British convoys and are reading their Admiralty U-boat situation reports, even to the point of knowing where the British think our boats are. With the Middle East as important as it is, so too are the military convoys round the Cape.’
Dönitz sat back and stared fixedly at Heidegger. ‘It will be your job,’ he said, ‘to see they don’t arrive. The coast of West Africa has become crucially important. You’re being sent there to organize things.’
Slipping through Vichy France with a few others, all English speakers – naval men, one or two members of the Dutch Nazi Party and anglophobe Frenchmen who knew Senegal, Guinea and the Ivory Coast – Heidegger had not found it difficult to reach Algiers and Morocco. From there, he and his companions had made their way to Casablanca and finally to Conakry in French Guinea. The British navy’s destruction of the French fleet at Oran in 1940 had created many enemies there and the French general in Conakry had been notorious for his dislike of the British even before Oran and the Gaullist fiasco at Casablanca, so that it was a simple matter to slip across the Great Scarcies river into Sierra Leone. The coastal watching station and the radio station were already functioning under the guise of the Sierra Leone Land Survey Company and Heidegger’s first job had been to open an office in Freetown, from whose windows there was a view of the harbour.
In the meantime Rommel had struck again and at that moment the British were heavily involved in trying to hit back with a counter attack. So far, it had seemed, things were not going well for them and convoys were hurriedly assembling in New York and the Clyde to carry whatever could be spared from Europe. The problem for the Germans was not the discovery of their dates of departure – B-Dienst was able to do that with ease – it was aircraft. When submarines operated in wolf packs, the first boat to sight the intended victims radioed position, course and speed for the rest of the pack to move in, but this was something which, because of their low speed when submerged, had to be done on the surface and aircraft could force them to dive and lose contact. Without aircraft, however, it was the British who were fighting blind, and it had seemed at once to Heidegger that Dönitz’ plan was incomplete and that he could do far more than merely report movements.
With the reports he had sent to Berlin had gone a plan of his own. Attempts to sabotage ships were never easy, since they had to be made in the middle of a crowded harbour, but the flying boats at isolated Jum, on which so much depended, were only too vulnerable.
The plan had gone first to an agent at Pepel and from there to another agent at Kambia, which was close to the Great Scarcies river. From there it had crossed into French Guinea by runner on one of the ferries over the river. The agent in neutral Conakry had radioed direct to Berlin. It had taken no more than twenty-four hours and within a few hours more the answer had come back by the same route.
‘Operate!’
They had put the plan into operation at once and X-X-ray and O-Orange had proved its efficiency.
The destruction of X-X-ray and O-Orange had been no accident, any more than the discovery of George C Grieves en route for Freetown. The Royal Navy’s signal about
her from Bathurst had been easily intercepted by Heidegger’s listening post and almost at once a message about the arrival of ‘a lorry carrying supplies and travelling alone’ had been passed by telephone to Pepel and passed on again to Kambia and across the ferry on the Great Scarcies river. Even her limping passage up the Bunce hadn’t gone unnoticed by the two men who ran the office of the Sierra Leone Land Survey Company in Freetown. Both apparently Dutchmen, they had debated for a while, then, after allowing a little time to pass to allay suspicion, had sent a guarded message by telephone to Heidegger who sent off a further message to Berlin via Pepel and French Guinea. He was well pleased with his organisation and that night they celebrated with whisky bought openly in Freetown from the United Africa Company.
‘A total write-off!’ The man who spoke was pink-faced and good-looking in a hard, thin-lipped way. He gestured at the man alongside him, a youngster with clean-cut features, handsome – almost beautiful – in the blond blue-eyed manner so admired by German exponents of Aryan philosophy. ‘Willer and I saw it.’
‘You went to look?’ Heidegger’s smile had vanished.
‘From the river.’
‘Then you are stupid, Lorenz. You might have been noticed. Anyone watching such things too closely could be suspect.’
‘There were others watching. Half the people from the river villages were there. Half Freetown turned out, I gather, when they passed through the harbour.’
‘It was still dangerous.’ Heidegger frowned. ‘And when you speak – even to me – I would prefer that you speak in English. It must become a habit. We never know who might be listening.’
Lorenz frowned. As Kapitänleutnant Heidegger was well aware, Lorenz was at Bonai not only to perform specific duties, but also to watch the others and report on them.
‘I’m sorry, sir.’ Lorenz switched to English and stressed the word very deliberately to show he had no fear of Heidegger. ‘I was merely enthusiastic. And excited at our success.’
‘Excitement’s a luxury we can’t afford,’ Heidegger said.
The steward refilled their glasses. He was thickset but not ill-looking, though heavy eyebrows gave him an intimidating appearance.
‘Whisky, sir?’ he asked. ‘On the bill of the Sierra Leone Land Survey Company.’
Heidegger accepted the drink without comment and used his finger to pick out an ant’s wing. Just behind him, Lorenz nodded at the steward.
‘Thank you, Pfitzner.’
The two men smiled at each other, and Heidegger frowned. He disliked Lorenz but he regarded Obergefreiter Pfitzner, who he knew had been sent as Lorenz’ assistant and handyman, ready to run his errands and to toady to anyone on his behalf, as nothing but an unthinking lout. He liked to get drunk, even on native palm wine; when he ate his manners were those of a pig; and Heidegger knew he was growing desperate for a woman. Any time now, he thought, Pfitzner would break out and, if he behaved as stupidly as Heidegger expected him to, he could be the end of them all.
‘There’s one other thing, Lorenz.’
Lorenz turned. As he did so, the door opened and a woman entered. Young Willer’s eyebrows shot up and the smile on his face grew wider to one of sheer delight.
‘This is Fräulein Fallada. Magda Fallada. She arrived while you were away.’
Lorenz was beaming now with undiluted pleasure. ‘This is an honour, Fräulein,’ he said. ‘To what do we owe this delightful intrusion?’
‘Fräulein Fallada is part of Dr Goebbels’ organization,’ Heidegger explained. ‘She arrived in Sierra Leone via Senegal in 1940.’
‘To do what, Fräulein?’ Lorenz asked.
‘My job’s trouble.’ The woman said coolly.
‘We’ve made a study of it. We find local grievances and use them to the advantage of the Führer. I was in Sudetenland before the war. There the grievance was the German minority’s lack of power. Here it’s rice and the mixture of nationalities. The tribesmen are against the Creoles. The Creoles are against the Syrians. And the Syrians are against everybody. I’ve been up-country near Kenema and Port Loko. The British want to put right the troubles caused among the different ethnic groups by the shortage of rice. It was my job to exacerbate them.’ She smiled. ‘We win our battles with words, not guns.’
‘Guns are still useful when the words run out,’ Lorenz said. ‘The essence of war is violence.’
He was putting on the act of a tough warrior, a German superman, and Heidegger interrupted before he could say any more. ‘Until we can get her safely across the border to Conakry,’ he said sharply, ‘Fräulein Fallada will remain here out of sight of the authorities. It’s our duty to make her comfortable.’
Despite his words, he wasn’t happy to have the woman there. She was tall, blonde, and well-made, but there was the same assured look on her face that there was on Lorenz’ heavy features. Somehow they went together.
Lorenz was still smiling. ‘I hope your departure won’t be too soon,’ he smiled.
‘It will be as soon as possible,’ Magda Fallada admitted. ‘I don’t like Sierra Leone.’
‘As far as the British are concerned,’ Heidegger interrupted, ‘Fräulein Fallada, like the rest of us, is Dutch. She is the widow of Dirk Fallada, one of our engineers.’ He gave a thin smile. ‘You’ll remember he died last year. Because of the U-boats, she has been unable to go home.’
Lorenz’ grin seemed set in plaster. ‘I remember,’ he said. ‘Such a sad end. And widows need consolation, don’t they? Perhaps we’ll be able to take her mind off her sorrows, won’t we, Pfitzner?’
Pfitzner grinned back at him. His heavy eyebrows gave him an evil look. ‘That we will, sir,’ he said.
Willer, twenty years old and beautiful as a girl with huge eyes and long dark lashes, moved forward, his expression eager, to replenish the woman’s glass. He was slight and small boned, and Heidegger had often wondered if he were a homosexual. His interest in Magda Fallada seemed to suggest he wasn’t, but Heidegger didn’t think he’d get far with her because he was too young, too idealistic and too inexperienced, and the Fallada woman had a hard, knowledgeable look about her. Lately Heidegger had been watching Willer closely because his face had been wearing a strained look so that Heidegger had a suspicion he wasn’t as fit as he pretended and that West Africa didn’t suit him. Like Lorenz, Willer was a good Party man, completely sold on the Nazi cult, and Heidegger suspected he might be hiding some illness so as not to let the Führer down.
At the moment, his face was flushed and his eyes were bright. Watched by Pfitzner, he and Lorenz were manoeuvring round each other like cocks round a barnyard hen. The woman’s eyes were on Lorenz. Clearly some chemistry between them was working already, and Heidegger didn’t like it. There was no place for a woman in what they were doing, and he watched them quietly, a tall intellectual-looking man, his fair hair brushed flat against his narrow skull.
As other men appeared, Heidegger gestured to them to drink with them, and for a while they stood discussing what had happened. As they finished their drinks and left one by one, the black man who looked after the bar disappeared to wash the glasses, but not before quietly pouring a bottle of beer for himself in the security of his little cupboard-like bar. When he’d finished, he picked up a little raffia bag containing more stolen bottles of beer, well-padded so they wouldn’t clink, and set off at a jog-trot down the hill to Hawkinge Town. He had nearly seven miles to go.
Two
The presence of Magda Fallada at Boina had created a different atmosphere at once.
Heidegger was aware of it as soon he appeared for breakfast the morning after her arrival. Lorenz, who was never very good at getting up, was already in the dining hall, dressed in freshly washed and starched khaki.
‘The very picture of a successful geologist,’ he crowed.
The other officers were also considerably smarter and cleaner than Heidegger had seen them for some time, Willer prominent among them with his girl’s complexion and shining handsome face; a
ll carefully shaved, their hair plastered down in spikes; even Obergefreiter Pfitzner, with his dark eyebrows and evil eyes, was wearing a clean white coat and had polished his shoes.
Magda Fallada’s entrance would have made a film star jealous. Everybody snapped to their feet as she appeared in the doorway and several heels clicked. Heidegger frowned. He’d warned them against the habit long since. If anything gave away a German it was the damned heel-clicking.
He rose and was about to gesture to the empty place alongside him when Lorenz yanked out the chair next to his. Magda smiled at him, gave a little bow towards Heidegger in greeting, and accepted. Lorenz pushed the chair in and sat down alongside her.
‘Pfitzner! Coffee!’
Pfitzner’s move forward was more a sidle than a stride and he was leaning over her with far more enthusiasm than he ever showed towards anyone else, taking a quick glance, Heidegger noticed, down the open top of her shirt as he did so.
After breakfast, Heidegger took her on one side and told her what they were doing and what his plan consisted of.
‘Why try to get at the ships in the harbour,’ he said, ‘when it’s easier to destroy the aircraft?’
‘There are many ways of killing a cat,’ she agreed. ‘As you doubtless know, we’ve investigated the possibility of stirring up trouble in British-dominated areas. Canada, New Zealand and Australia are out but South Africa has a strong anti-British element and Sierra Leone is another place with a great potential for disaffection.’
He didn’t reply and she decided he was stuffy and frigid. ‘We have agents in all the big townships,’ she went on. ‘Sefadum. Kabala. Makeni. Bo. Kenema. Port Loko. To say nothing of Freetown itself. In Freetown, though, we found, like you, that we couldn’t do much because it’s been British so long they think British. But there are nationalists and we’ve been using them. Trouble disrupts the supplies of bauxite, diamonds and iron ore, and disruption’s as much a part of war as shooting.’
