A Funny Place to Hold a War

by John Harris

  It had never been his wish to die bravely for the Fatherland. There was still too much to do and it seemed to him that Heidegger might even be seeking a heroic death in the best traditions of the German navy’s officer corps – which wouldn’t do him much good, anyway, because there would be no one to witness and report it. It might be good sense to see for himself what the possibilities of escape were.

  He knelt beside Magda. ‘I’m getting out of here,’ he said quietly.

  She looked up. ‘Heidegger thinks it’s going to be difficult.’

  ‘For him perhaps. It needn’t be for us.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Two could get out where twenty-two couldn’t. That lot in there with Heidegger: what are they? Seamen and petty officers for the most part. French traitors, Senegalese, dissident Dutch. They’re not even all Germans. We’re the élite. We’re the ones who’re needed back in Berlin. You and me.’

  ‘What about Heidegger?’

  ‘He’s finished.’

  ‘Dying?’

  ‘Yes,’ Lorenz lied. ‘He’ll never move from this place. It’s up to us to save ourselves. There are boats in the creek and the Maréchal Grouchy’s waiting off the coast. We can slip down there and get out as soon as it’s dark.’

  She said nothing for a moment, then she nodded. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I’ll go with you.’

  Hubbard had finally decided to tackle the line of buildings from the side and capture them one by one. They all seemed to be of wood, plasterboard and mosquito wire set on low stone frames so that where they adjoined it ought to be possible to hack their way through from one to the next. The nearest one, furthest from the parked diggers and bulldozers, a low flat building that looked like a dining hall, seemed the most vulnerable.

  The wire fence had been cut by this time and his men deployed among the thick bush that surrounded the open space in front of the buildings. He called Harder to him. Harder was an ex-sergeant recently commissioned and he had a tough capable look about him.

  ‘Right, Frank,’ he said. ‘Let’s have the Bren playing on that main building from the other side while we go in at this end. Have your chaps fire at any windows you can to make them keep their heads down. Pass out what grenades we’ve got. We’ll open the bowling from this end. Wait until you hear us then let go with everything you’ve got. Try not to hit us. We’ll give you ten minutes.’

  As Harder disappeared, Cazalet smoked a cigarette quietly, then, just as unhurriedly, looked at his watch. ‘Time’s up,’ he said.

  As he spoke, there was a clatter of firing from the opposite end of the group of buildings, and one or two overs whined above them.

  ‘That’s Harder,’ Hubbard said. ‘Off we go!’

  Stepping out into the sunshine, he waved to his men and they crashed out of the bush and started running across the open space, followed at a walk by Cazalet.

  The high-pitched tribal yells of the soldiers were sufficient to warn Harder’s party that they were on their way and the firing rattled out more strongly from their left. As he raced across the open space in front of the buildings, Hubbard saw two men fall, then he was up against the bole of the eucalyptus tree. Pausing for his men to catch up, he set off again, jinking to right and left, aware of little spurts leaping from the muddy earth around him, then he flung himself down alongside the low stone wall that supported the wood, plasterboard and mosquito wire construction of the hut.

  Over his head a light machine gun was firing, whoever held it within a foot or two of him. Pulling the pin from a grenade, he reached up and tossed it through the open window.

  ‘Oh, well played,’ Cazalet said aloud as he watched.

  The roar as the grenade went off stopped the shooting long enough for the West African soldiers to reach the wall. Without pausing in his run, one of them leaped through the open window, swinging his rifle as he went, and Hubbard scrambled up and vaulted after him. The plastered walls inside were pockmarked where the grenade had exploded and in one corner where he had been flung lay a black-haired man who looked French. He still clutched his weapon but his body seemed to be oozing blood from a dozen points. Another man lay in a huddle in a corner holding his head, watched by the grinning West African. There seemed to be nobody else.

  Cazalet was well satisfied. At least they were into the buildings now and under cover. ‘Very pretty, Nick,’ he said as he climbed inside. ‘They’ll be making you a general before long.’

  The firing behind him had made Lorenz stop. He pulled Magda into the bush and waited, aware that they’d escaped just in time.

  He gestured with his head and they moved towards the path to the landing stage. As he studied the basin with the moored dinghy and the heavy supply scow, he decided that neither of them appealed to him much as a means of escape. The scow was too slow. The dinghy was too small. Then he noticed the dinghy had an outboard motor attached, which was odd because, left unguarded, the fishermen would undoubtedly steal it.

  It seemed unimportant, however, and he had just decided to use the launch tucked behind a projecting spit of land further downstream and that it would be possible to board her with the dinghy without being seen, when he saw movement in the bush a few yards away. Immediately, he understood the significance of the outboard motor and, pushing Magda down among the foliage, he lifted his head cautiously.

  ‘It’s the Dutchmen,’ he whispered. ‘They’re going to steal the boats.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  Lorenz smiled. ‘What we should have done long since,’ he said.

  The Dutchmen were moving cautiously through the bush but, as they reached the path leading to the landing stage, they straightened up and began to run. They were halfway down, backgrounded by the red earth of the low cliff, when Lorenz stood up and fired the tommy gun from the hip. It was as if a giant hand had hurled the hurrying men aside. One of them was flung against the cliff, his clawing fingers drawing agonized lines in the muddy soil. Another fell from the path to the catamaran below, to roll over the edge and splash into the water. The others slumped down, blocking the path. One of them, a fat man with a pink face and heavy stomach, dragged himself up, tried to crawl, and finally fell back.

  Magda’s eyes were horrified. ‘You killed them,’ she said, her voice shocked. ‘You killed them in cold blood!’

  Lorenz’ face was taut and angry. ‘We’re fighting a war,’ he snapped. ‘We’re in no position to take chances. Taking chances won’t get you to Berlin. Come on, let’s get away from here. I’m not staying to be captured or killed. Heidegger’s ideas of gallantry aren’t mine.’

  Leaving her on the bank at the top, he set off down the path. Reaching the Dutchmen, with his foot he tipped them from the edge of the path so that they rolled into the foliage. One of them fell to the catamaran and sprawled there. Climbing into the dinghy, Lorenz slammed the oars into the tholes.

  Magda watched silently, horrified by what had happened. She had never seen men killed in battle and it had shocked her. Slowly, she headed down the path towards the Dutchmen. One of them was still alive and, wrenching at her skirt, she tore a strip from it and tried to staunch his wounds.

  ‘Come on!’ Lorenz called.

  She stared at him angrily, suddenly, stubbornly, against him for his lack of compassion. ‘This man’s hurt,’ she said.

  ‘So what?’

  ‘He needs help.’

  Lorenz sneered. ‘You’re a damn fool! Germany will never win the war if we allow our feelings to direct us.’

  ‘You have no feelings, it seems.’

  Lorenz stared at her for a moment, his, eyes cold. ‘Make him comfortable then,’ he said. ‘I’ll start the boat and come back for you.’

  He headed downstream to the launch and she watched him climb aboard and disappear below. As she bent over the Dutchman, he gave her a look of loathing that shrivelled her soul but she tried to ignore it and went on working, her hands red with his blood.

  For some time she crouc
hed over the injured man, trying in a hopeless sort of way to help, until, abruptly, she realized there had been no movement from the big launch lying behind the spit of land. Looking up, she was just in time to see Lorenz climbing back into the dinghy, his face furious. Reaching for the oars, he headed back to the catamaran.

  ‘That damn’ boat only has throttles and a telegraph by the wheel,’ he snarled as he scrambled ashore. ‘The starters and gear levers are in the engine room.’

  She looked up and said nothing.

  ‘I need you, Magda,’ he urged. ‘Quickly.’

  ‘I’m not interested.’

  ‘All you have to do is stand in the engine room, and when I ring the telegraph, press the starter and work the gear lever. One engine would do until we’re out of the river.’

  ‘I’m not going out of the river.’ She indicated the wounded Dutchman. ‘I have work to do here.’

  He didn’t seem to hear her properly. ‘We’ll do it the other way then. You can stand by the wheel and I’ll start the engines and put her in gear.’

  ‘I’m not going!

  Lorenz’ face grew red. ‘I can’t do it on my own!’ he shouted. ‘If I put her in gear without someone on the wheel, she’ll run aground.’

  ‘That would be too bad.’

  ‘Listen, Magda…!’

  ‘I’m not coming!’ she stormed. ‘This man’s badly hurt!’

  Lorenz stared down at the Dutchman who was sitting up now, his back against the cliff. ‘Can he stand up?’ he asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I don’t believe you. Get him on his feet.’

  She stared at him in horror. ‘You’re mad!’

  ‘Get him on his feet! He’s going in the engine room of the launch to work the gear lever and you’re going to see he does.’

  ‘It’ll kill him!

  ‘I don’t give a damn! Get him up!’

  The Dutchman clearly understood what they were saying because he looked at Magda and shook his head, his fat chins wobbling.

  ‘Get him up!’

  The Dutchman spoke, enunciating painfully ‘I will not come,’ he said.

  ‘You’ll do as you’re told,’ Lorenz snarled.

  The Dutchman shook his head again. ‘Your nation has destroyed mine. I will not lift a finger.’

  His face furious, Lorenz reached into the dinghy and picked up the tommy gun. ‘On your feet,’ he said.

  ‘Herr Leutnant, I will not do it.’

  ‘Then I’ll shoot you!’

  ‘Karl!’ As Magda moved forward, Lorenz flung her aside and she fell to her knees.

  ‘Get up or I shoot!’

  The fat Dutchman stared calmly at the gun and shook his head. Lorenz’ eyes seemed to grow red with rage as he pulled the trigger. The earth jumped and the Dutchman fell back, blood welling from his mouth.

  ‘You oaf!’ Magda screamed. ‘You lunatic! You’re not fit to live with decent human beings.

  The gun swung round. ‘Get into the dinghy,’ Lorenz snarled. ‘You’re going to do the job!’

  She rose slowly to her feet. Her face was pale and her eyes were glittering with hatred. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Never. I’ll stay and take my chance with the others. I wouldn’t lift a finger to help you.’

  ‘I’ll shoot!’

  ‘Then shoot!’

  For a long time, Lorenz’ finger hovered over the trigger then, abruptly, he swung away and climbed back into the dinghy. As he turned, she gave a choking cry, sank to her knees and began to sob.

  five

  The signal the admiral had been awaiting for days dropped on his desk even as Cazalet gained the safety of the mine buildings.

  ‘Dates, times and courses, sir,’ his aide pointed out. ‘New York–Middle East, Gibraltar–Sierra Leone, UK–Cape Town. A hundred and forty ships.’

  ‘Inform the senior officer afloat,’ the admiral said. ‘He’s to pick up the convoys as soon as they come within our area. Pass it on to the air officer commanding and to RAF Jum. You can also inform Hawkinge and Brighton, too, though God knows what they can do with their Stringbags.’ He reached for his pipe, tobacco pouch and matches and stuffed them into his pocket. ‘I’m off to see the port supply officer,’ he said. ‘You’d better inform the hospital, too. There’s usually an odd case or two for them and this time there could be quite a few, judging by the number of men these ships are carrying.’

  It was like a damn’ big game of chess, he decided as he headed for the door. The British and the American naval staffs were working as hard as the Germans to forecast positions and numbers. Each side had an idea of the other’s intentions but neither had a complete knowledge of what they were. Though the Germans had had some successes, and had obviously picked up information on the convoys moving south towards Freetown, the British were listening just as intently to German radio traffic, and had already diverted the convoys further west so that the wolf pack known to have been across their original course was doubtless now trying to re-establish contact, shifting to a new patrol line across what Berlin thought would be their new path.

  The officer commanding the Freetown destroyer flotilla called his captains on board.

  ‘Being in all respects fit for sea and ready to engage the enemy…’ Wrapped in traditional wording, the written instructions were handed out and explained. Bos’n’s pipes wailed and shouts echoed along steel corridors. ‘Watchmen and special sea duty men close up! Secure all scuttles and water-tight doors!’ In mess decks and passageways, men lashed hammocks. Communications were tested and stokers, telegraphists and artificers hurried to their positions. Underfoot there was a faint trembling as engines began to turn.

  The flotilla leader slipped her buoy within half an hour and headed north past Lungi towards Sallatouk Point. Her captain, who was also the senior officer afloat, studied the charts, already aware that somewhere up ahead of him at least two wolf packs were waiting for the approaching convoys. His eye moved over the list of ships available in reserve. There weren’t many and with the shortage of depth charges after the explosion at Giuru there would have to be no mistakes.

  ‘It would help if we knew where the buggers were,’ he said.

  Worried and uncertain, as the telephone rang Wing Commander Mackintosh snatched it up and barked his name. It was the admiral’s aide.

  ‘The convoy’s due in our area within twenty-four hours,’ he warned. ‘Are your people standing by?’

  ‘Yes. But we’ve had a few problems. Our aircraft have been under fire.’

  ‘Those Huns from Boina? What are you going to do? Put your kites in the air?’

  Mackintosh’s voice was sarcastic. Trust the navy to put its big feet in the custard. ‘We can’t have the bloody things floating round the sky doing nothing,’ he said.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because they’ll be no bloody good to anybody, sport, if they have to come down to be refuelled and serviced just when they’re needed.’

  As he slammed down the telephone, Mackintosh swore. Whatever the Germans intended, he decided, they’d certainly picked a crook time for it.

  U-1761, one of the boats from Gruppe Herzog assigned as Vorpostenstreifen, or picket line, had only three torpedoes left, one of them defective, was low on fuel and, with her port diesel causing concern, had finally given up the struggle to take up position and was heading northwards towards the Bay of Biscay and the safety of the pens at St Nazaire.

  Nobody on board was pleased, the captain least of all. He had not had a successful voyage and had headed south as ordered, hoping, with all he had gleaned from the signals about the coming clash, that his chances would be good and might finally make the voyage worthwhile. But he had lost an officer and two ratings overboard in the Atlantic and now had a petty officer ill below with pneumonia and had finally given up the struggle.

  As the U-boat made its way northwards on the surface, the look-out wasn’t being particularly alert because he wasn’t expecting to see anything. Though the wind was negligible, th
e night before the moon rose was pitch black and it was with great surprise that he suddenly saw a light directly ahead. It appeared only for a matter of two seconds but he recognized it immediately as a careless sailor lighting a cigarette on the deck of a ship. He leaped for the button of the alarm and heard it sounding below in the control room. By the time the captain reached the bridge there seemed to be ships across the whole horizon. Quite accidentally U-1761 had stumbled on Convoy WS24.

  It was with some pleasure that U-boat headquarters in Berlin received U-1761’s report and the position of the huge convoy. It had required considerable courage to keep every available U-boat tied to this one operation when they could well be used in the North Atlantic, and U-1761 was ordered to remain on station whatever the difficulties, no matter who was ill, shadowing the convoy while a signal went out ordering Gruppe Markgraf, fifty miles south of where the convoy had been sighted, to proceed northwards at top speed, while the boats at the western end of Gruppe Herzog’s line were ordered to turn east. Within an hour twenty-four U-boats were making their way towards the convoy. They were expected to meet each other a hundred miles south of their present position and a hundred and fifty miles west of Sierra Leone. More boats operating to the south-west of Freetown in the southern half of the Gulf of Guinea were ordered to head west and north at speed and as close to the Sierra Leone bulge as possible to shorten the voyage.

  Inside the hut they had captured, Cazalet was studying his surroundings. The concrete floor was covered with scattered cartridge cases and items of equipment.

  They moved warily through the building. It seemed to be a dining hall, and there was a large room with a small corrugated shack alongside where the cooking was done. Reaching the other end of the building, they paused on the wire-meshed veranda that ran round it to keep it cool. There seemed to be no one about but the minute Cazalet put his head out, a storm of bullets came from the next building and he withdrew it quickly and turned to the British sergeant.