Storm Warning

Sister Angela jumped to her feet and moved out. Berger closed the door behind her, then picked up the towel she dropped and wiped his face. Strange how she seemed to bring out the worst in him. A constant source of irritation, but then perhaps it was simply that they’d all been together for too long in such a confined space. And yet …

For most of the afternoon, HMS Guardian, a T-class submarine of the British Home Fleet, en route to Trinidad for special orders, had proceeded submerged, but at 1600 hours she surfaced.

It was the throb of the diesels that brought her captain, Lieutenant-Commander George Harvey, awake. He lay there for a moment on the bunk, staring up at the steel bulkhead, aware of the taste in his mouth, the smell of submarine, and then the green curtain was pulled aside and Petty Officer Swallow came in with tea in a chipped enamel mug.

‘Just surfaced, sir.’

The tea was foul, but at least there was real sugar in it, which was something.

‘What’s it like up there?’

‘Overcast. Wind north-west. Two to three. Visibility poor, sir. Slight sea mist and drizzling.’

‘Succinct as always, Coxswain,’ Harvey told him.

‘Beg pardon, sir?’

‘Never mind. Just tell Mr Edge I’ll join him on the bridge in five minutes.’

‘Sir.’

Swallow withdrew and Harvey swung his legs to the floor and sat there, yawning. Then he moved to the small desk bolted to the bulkhead, opened the Guardian’s war diary and in cold, precise naval language, started to insert the daily entry.

There were three men on the bridge. Sub-Lieutenant Edge, officer of the watch, a signalman and an able seaman for lookout. The sea was surprisingly calm and there was none of the usual corkscrewing or pitching that a submarine frequently experiences when travelling on the surface in any kind of rough weather.

Edge was thoroughly enjoying himself. The rain in his face was quite refreshing and the salt air felt sweet and clean in his lungs after the hours spent below.

Swallow came up the ladder, a mug of tea in one hand. ‘Thought you might like a wet, sir. Captain’s compliments and he’ll join you on the bridge in five minutes.’

‘Good show,’ Edge said cheerfully. ‘Not that there’s anything to report.’

Swallow started to reply and then his eyes widened and an expression of incredulity appeared on his face. ‘Good God Almighty!’ he said. ‘I don’t believe it.’

In the same instant, the lookout cried out, pointing, and Edge turned to see a three-masted barquentine, all sails set, emerge from a fog bank a quarter of a mile to port.

On board the Deutschland there was no panic, for the plan to be followed in such an eventuality had been gone over so many times that everyone knew exactly what to do.

Berger was on the quarterdeck, Sturm and Richter beside him at the rail. The bosun was holding a signalling lamp. The captain spoke without lowering his glasses. ‘A British submarine. T-class.’

‘Is this it, sir?’ Sturm asked. ‘Are we finished?’

‘Perhaps.’

The Guardian’s gun crew poured out of her conning-tower and manned their positions. For a moment there was considerable activity, then a signal lamp flashed.

‘Heave to or I fire,’ Richter said.

‘Plain enough. Reply: As a neutral ship I comply under protest.’

The shutter on the signal lamp in the bosun’s hands clattered. A moment later, the reply came. ‘I intend to board you. Stand by.’

Berger lowered his glasses. ‘Very well, gentlemen. Action stations, if you please. Take in all sail, Mr Sturm. You, Richter, will see the rest of the crew into the bilges and I will attend to the passengers.’

There was a flurry of activity as Sturm turned to bark orders to the watch on deck. Richter went down the quarterdeck ladder quickly. Berger followed him, descending the companionway.

When he entered the saloon, four of the nuns were seated round the table listening to a bible-reading from Sister Lotte.

‘Where is Sister Angela?’ Berger demanded.

Sister Lotte paused. ‘With Frau Prager.’

The door of the consul’s cabin opened and Prager emerged. He seemed haggard and drawn and had lost weight since that first night in Belém so that his tropical linen suit seemed a size too large.

‘How are things?’ Berger asked.

‘Bad,’ Prager said. ‘She gets weaker by the hour.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Berger addressed his next remark to all of them. ‘There’s a British submarine on the surface about a quarter of a mile off our port beam and moving in. They intend to board.’

Sister Käthe crossed herself quickly and Sister Angela came out of the Pragers’ cabin clutching an enamel bucket, her white apron soiled.

When Berger next spoke, it was to no one but her. ‘You heard?’

‘Yes.’

‘We had a bad night of it, Sister – a hell of a night. You understand me?’

‘Perfectly, Captain.’ Her face was pale, but the eyes sparkled. ‘We won’t let you down.’

Berger picked up a broom that leaned against the bulkhead, reached up and jabbed at the skylight again and again, glass showering across the table so that the nuns scattered with cries of alarm.

He tossed the broom into a corner. ‘See that you don’t,’ he said and went back up the companionway.

There was total silence, the nuns staring at Sister Angela expectantly. With a violent gesture she raised the bucket in her hands and emptied the contents across the floor. There was the immediate all-pervading stench of vomit and Sister Brigitte turned away, stomach heaving.

‘Excellent,’ Sister Angela said. ‘Now you, Lotte, go to the lavatory and fetch a bucket of slops. I want conditions down here to be so revolting those Tommis will be back up that companionway in two minutes flat.’

She had changed completely, the voice clipped, incisive, totally in command. ‘As for the rest of you, complete disorder in the cabins. Soak your bedding in seawater.’

Prager tugged at her sleeve. ‘What about me, Sister? What shall I do?’

‘Kneel, Herr Prager,’ she said. ‘At your wife’s bedside – and pray.’

As the Guardian moved in, Harvey observed the activity on the deck of the Deutschland closely through his glasses.

Edge came up the ladder behind him. ‘I’ve checked Lloyd’s Register, sir. It seems to be her all right. Gudrid Andersen, three-masted barquentine, registered Gothenburg.’

‘But what in the hell is she doing here?’

Harvey frowned, trying to work out the best way of handling the situation. His first officer, Gregson, lay in his bunk with a fractured left ankle. In such circumstances to leave the Guardian himself, however temporarily, was unthinkable. Which left Edge, a nineteen-year-old boy on his first operational patrol – hardly an ideal choice.

On the other hand, there was Swallow. His eyes met the chief petty officer’s briefly. Not a word spoken and yet he knew that the coxswain read his thoughts perfectly.

‘Tell me, Coxswain, does anyone on board speak Swedish?’

‘Not to my knowledge, sir.’

‘We must hope they run to enough English over there to get us by, then. Lieutenant Edge will lead the boarding party. Pick him two good men – side arms only. And I think you might as well go along for the ride.’

‘Sir.’

Swallow turned and at his shouted command, the forward hatch was opened and a rubber dinghy broken out. Edge went below and reappeared a few moments later buckling a webbing belt around his waist from which hung a holstered Webley revolver. He was excited and showed it.

‘Think you can handle it?’ Harvey asked.

‘I believe so, sir.’

‘Good. A thorough inspection of ship’s papers and identity documents of everyone on board.’

‘Am I looking for anything special sir?’

‘Hardly,’ Harvey said drily. ‘The Germans last used a sailing ship as a surface raider in nineteen-seventeen, if I remember my naval history correctly, and times have changed. No, we’re entitled to check her credentials and I’m consumed with curiosity as to the nature of her business, so off you go.’

Sturm waited at the rail as the dinghy coasted in. Edge went up the Jacob’s ladder first, followed by one of the ratings and Swallow, who carried a Thompson gun. The other rating stayed with the dinghy. Of Berger, there was no sign.

Sturm, who spoke excellent English, pointed to the ensign which fluttered at the masthead. ‘I must protest, sir. As you can see, this is a Swedish vessel.’

‘Ah, good, you speak English,’ Edge said with a certain relief. ‘Lieutenant Philip Edge of His Britannic Majesty’s submarine Guardian. Are you the master of this vessel?’

‘No, my name is Larsen. First mate. Captain Nielsen is in his cabin getting out the ship’s papers for you. I’m afraid things are in a bit of a mess. We had a bad night of it. Almost turned turtle when a squall hit us during the middle watch. It caused considerable damage.’

Edge said to Swallow, ‘You handle things here, Coxswain, while I have a word with the captain.’

‘Shall we take a look below, sir?’ Swallow suggested.

Edge turned, taking in the watchful gun crew on the Guardian, the Browning machine-gun which had been mounted on the rail beside Harvey.

‘Yes, why not? he said and followed Sturm towards the quarterdeck.

The young German opened the door to the captain’s cabin and stood politely to one side. Edge paused on the threshold, taking in the shambles before him. A porthole was smashed, the carpet soaked, the whole place littered with books and personal belongings.

Berger stood behind the desk, face stern, the ship’s log and other papers ready on the desk before him.

‘I’m afraid Captain Nielsen doesn’t speak English so I’ll have to interpret for you.’ Which was far from the truth for Berger’s English, though modest, was adequate. ‘The captain,’ Sturm added, ‘is not pleased at this forcible boarding of a neutral vessel about her lawful business.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Edge said, considerably intimidated by the stern expression on Berger’s face, ‘but I’m afraid I must insist on seeing your ship’s papers and log, also your cargo manifest.’

Berger turned away as if angry. Sturm said, ‘But we carry no cargo, Lieutenant, only passengers.’ He picked up the ship’s log, soaked in sea water, its pages sticking together. ‘Perhaps you would care to examine the log? You will find all other relevant papers here also.’

Edge took it from him, sat down in Berger’s chair and tried to separate the first two water-soaked pages which promptly tore away in his hand. And at that precise moment, Richter and the eleven other members of the crew secreted in the bilges with him, were lying in several inches of stinking water, aware of Swallow’s heavy footsteps in the hold above their heads.

Edge left the cabin fifteen minutes later, having examined as thoroughly as he could an assortment of papers and clutching the Swedish passports offered for his inspection.

Swallow emerged from the companionway, looking ill. Edge said, ‘Are the passengers down there, Coxswain?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Swallow was taking in deep breaths of salt air rapidly. ‘Five nuns, sir, and an old gentleman and his wife – and she doesn’t look too healthy.’

Edge advanced to the top of the companionway and Swallow said hastily, ‘I wouldn’t bother, sir. Not unless you feel you have to. They’ve obviously had a rotten time of it in last night’s storm. Still cleaning up.’

Edge hesitated, turned to glance at Sturm, Berger glowering behind, then started down.

The stink was appalling, the stench of human excrement and vomit turning his stomach. The first thing he saw in the shambles of the saloon below were four nuns on their knees amongst the filth with buckets and brushes, scrubbing the floor. Edge got a handkerchief to his mouth as Sister Angela appeared in the doorway of the Pragers’ cabin.

‘Can I help you?’ she asked in good English.

‘Sorry to trouble you, ma’am. My duty – you understand?’ He held out the passports. ‘International law in time of war. I’m entitled to inspect the passenger list.’

He glanced past her at Prager who knelt beside his wife. Her face was deathly pale, shining with sweat, and she was breathing incredibly slowly.

‘And this lady and gentleman?’ He started to sort through the passports.

‘Mr Ternström and his wife. As you can see, she is very ill.’

Prager turned to look at him, the agony on his face totally genuine, and Edge took an involuntary step back. Lotte chose that exact moment to be sick, crouching there on the floor like some animal. It was enough.

Edge turned hastily, brushed past Sturm and went back up the companionway. He leaned on the starboard rail, breathing deeply, and Swallow moved beside him.

‘You all right, sir?’

‘God, what a pest-hole. Those women – they’ve been through hell.’ He pulled himself together. ‘You’ve checked the holds thoroughly Coxswain?’

‘Clean as a whistle, sir. She’s in ballast with sand.’

Edge turned to Sturm who stood waiting, Berger a pace or two behind. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘For many months we work the coastal trade in Brazil,’ Sturm told him. ‘Then we decide to come home. As you may imagine, no one seemed anxious to risk a cargo with us.’

‘And the passengers?’

‘The good Sisters have been stranded in Brazil for more than a year now. We are the first Swedish ship to leave Brazil during that time. They were grateful for the opportunity for any kind of passage.’

‘But the old lady,’ Edge said. ‘Mrs Ternström. She looks in a bad way.’

‘And anxious to see her family again while there is still time.’ Sturm smiled bitterly. ‘War makes things difficult for us neutrals when we want to travel from one place to another.’

Edge made his decision and handed the passports back. ‘You’ll want these. My apologies to your captain. I’ll have to confirm it with my commanding officer, but I see no reason why you shouldn’t be allowed to proceed.’ He moved to the head of the Jacob’s ladder and paused. ‘Those ladies down there …’

‘Will be fine, Lieutenant. We’ll soon have things shipshape again.’

‘Anything else we can do for you?’

Sturm smiled. ‘Bring us up to date on the war, if you would. How are things going?’

‘All our way now, no doubt about that,’ Edge said. ‘Though they do seem to be slowing down rather in Europe. I don’t think we’re going to see Berlin by Christmas after all. The Germans are making one hell of a fight of it in the Low Countries.’

He went down the ladder quickly, followed by Swallow and the other rating, and they cast off. ‘Well, Coxswain?’ he asked as they pulled away.

‘I know one thing, sir. I’ll never complain about serving in submarines again.’

On the quarterdeck Berger smoked a cigar and waited, Sturm at his side.

‘What do you think, Herr Kapitän?’ Sturm asked. ‘Has it worked?’

In the same moment, the signal lamp on the bridge of the Guardian started to flash.

‘You may proceed.’ Berger spelled out. ‘Happy voyage and good luck.’ He turned to Sturm, his face calm. ‘My maternal grandmother was English, did I ever tell you that?’

‘No, sir.’

Berger tossed his cigar over the side. ‘She’s all yours, Mr Sturm. Let’s get under way again as soon as may be.’

‘Aye, aye, sir.’

Sturm turned, raising his voice to call to the men below, and Berger descended to the deck. He stood in the entrance to the companionway, aware of the stench, of Sister Angela’s pale face peering up at him.

‘Did it work?’ she called softly.

‘Remind me, when I have the time, to tell you what a very remarkable woman you are, Sister.’

‘At the appropriate moment, I shall, Captain. You may be certain of that,’ she said serenely.

Berger turned away. The Guardian was already departing towards the south-west. He watched her go, and behind him Helmut Richter emerged from the forrard hatch and came aft. His body was streaked with filth, but he was smiling.

‘Can the lads come on deck and wash off under the pump? They smell pretty high after those bilges.’

‘So I observe.’ Berger wrinkled his nose. ‘Give it another twenty minutes until our British friends are really on their way, Helmut, then turn them loose.’

He went into his cabin and Richter stripped his shirt from his body, worked the deck pump with one hand and turned the hose on himself. As he did so, Sister Lotte came out on deck clutching a full pail of slops in both hands. She got as far as the starboard rail and was about to empty it when Richter reached her.

‘Never into the wind,’ he said. ‘That way you get the contents back in your face.’ He peered down in disgust. ‘And that, you can definitely do without.’

He carried the pail to the port rail, emptied it over the side, then flushed it out under the pump. She stood watching him calmly.

She was small and very slightly built, a lawyer’s daughter from Munich who looked younger than her twenty-three years. Unlike the other nuns, she was still a novice and had been transferred to Brazil, by way of Portugal, the previous year, only because she was a trained nurse and there was a shortage of people with her qualifications.

She picked up his shirt. ‘I’ll wash this for you.’

‘No need.’

‘And the seam is splitting on one shoulder, I’ll mend it.’ When she looked up, he saw that her eyes were a startling cornflower blue. ‘It must have been horrible down there.’

‘For you also.’

He handed her the pail, she took it and for a brief moment, they held it together. Sister Angela said quietly, ‘Lotte, I need you.’

She was standing in the entrance to the companionway, her face calm as always, but there was a new wariness in her eyes when she looked at Richter. The girl smiled briefly and joined her and they went below. Richter started to pump water over his head vigorously.

Berger sat behind the desk, surveying the wreckage of his cabin – not that it mattered. It could soon be put straight again. He was filled with a tremendous sense of elation and opened his personal journal. He picked up his pen, thought for a moment, then wrote: I am now more than ever convinced that we shall reach Kiel in safety …

4

Barquentine Deutschland, 14 September 1944. Lat. 28°.16N., long. 30°.50W. Frau Prager died at three bells of the mid-watch. We delivered her body to the sea shortly after dawn, Sister Angela taking the service. Ship’s company much affected by this calamitous event. A light breeze sprang up during the afternoon watch, increasing to fresh in squalls. I estimate that we are 1170 miles from Cobh in Ireland this day.

Night was falling fast as Jago and Petty Officer Jansen went up the hill to St Mungo’s. They found the burial party in the cemetery at the back of the church. There were twenty or so islanders there, men and women, Jean Sinclair and Reeve standing together, the admiral in full uniform. Murdoch Macleod in his best blue serge suit, stood at the head of the open grave, a prayer book in his hands.

The two Americans paused some little distance away and removed their caps. It was very quiet except for the incessant calling of the birds, and Jago looked down across Mary’s Town to the horseshoe of the harbour where the MGB was tied up at the jetty.

The sun was setting in a sky the colour of brass, splashed with scarlet, thin mackerel clouds high above. Beyond Barra Head, the islands marched north to Barra, Mingulay, Pabbay, Sandray, rearing out of a perfectly calm sea, black against flame.

Reeve glanced over his shoulder, murmured something to Jean Sinclair, then moved towards them through the gravestones. ‘Thanks for coming so promptly, Lieutenant.’

‘No trouble, sir. We were on our way to Mallaig from Stornoway when they relayed your message.’ Jago nodded towards the grave into which half-a-dozen fishermen were lowering the coffin. ‘Another one from U-743?’

Reeve nodded. ‘That makes eight in the past three days.’ He hesitated. ‘When you were last here you said you were going to London on leave this week.’

‘That’s right, Admiral. If I can get to Mallaig on time I intend to catch the night train for Glasgow. Is there something I can do for you, sir?’

‘There certainly is.’ Reeve took a couple of envelopes from his pocket. ‘This first one is for my niece. Her apartment’s in Westminster, not far from the Houses of Parliament.’

‘And the other, sir?’

Reeve handed it over. ‘If you would see that gets to SHAEF Headquarters personally. It would save time.’

Jago looked at the address on the envelope and swallowed hard. ‘My God!’

Reeve smiled. ‘See that it’s handed to one of his aides personally. No one else.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You’d better move out, then. I’ll expect to hear from you as soon as you get back. As I told you, I have a radio at the cottage, one of the few courtesies the Navy still extends me. They’ll brief you at Mallaig on the times during the day I sit at the damned thing hoping someone will take notice.’

Jago saluted, nodded to Jansen and then moved away. As the admiral rejoined the funeral party, Murdoch Macleod started to read aloud in a firm, clear voice: ‘Man that is born of woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up and is cut down like a flower …’

Suddenly it was very dark, with only the burned-out fire of day on the horizon as they went out through the lych-gate.

Jansen said, ‘Who’s the letter for, Lieutenant?’

‘General Eisenhower,’ Jago said simply.

In Brest, they were shooting again across the river as Paul Gericke turned the corner, the rattle of small-arms fire drifting across the water. Somewhere on the far horizon rockets arched through the night and in spite of the heavy rain, considerable portions of the city appeared to be on fire. Most of the warehouses which had once lined the street had been demolished by bombing, the pavement was littered with rubble and broken glass, but the small hotel on the corner, which served as naval headquarters, still seemed to be intact. Gericke ran up the steps quickly, showed his pass to the sentry on the door and went inside.

He was a small man, no more than five feet five or six, with fair hair and a pale face that seemed untouched by wind and weather. His eyes were very dark, with no light in them at all, contrasting strangely with the good-humoured, rather lazy smile that seemed permanently to touch his mouth.

His white-topped naval cap had seen much service and he was hardly a prepossessing figure in his old leather jerkin, leather trousers and sea boots. But the young lieutenant sitting at his desk in the foyer saw only the Knight’s Cross with Oak Leaves at the throat and was on his feet in an instant.

‘I was asked to report to the commodore of submarines as soon as I arrived,’ Gericke told him. ‘Korvettenkapitän Gericke. U-235.’

‘He’s expecting you, sir,’ the lieutenant said. ‘If you’d follow me.’

They went up the curving staircase. A petty officer, a pistol at his belt, stood guard outside one of the hotel bedrooms. The handwritten notice on the door said Kapitän zur See Otto Friemel, Führer der Unterseeboote West.

The lieutenant knocked and went in. ‘Lieutenant-Commander Gericke, sir.’

The room was in half darkness, the only light the reading lamp on Friemel’s desk. He was in shirt-sleeves, working his way through a pile of correspondence, steel-rimmed reading glasses perched on the end of his nose, and an ivory cigarette-holder jutting from the left corner of his mouth.

He came round the desk smiling, hand outstretched. ‘My dear Paul. Good to see you. How was the West Indies?’

‘A long haul,’ Gericke said. ‘Especially when it was time to come home.’

Friemel produced a bottle of Schnapps and two glasses. ‘We’re out of champagne. Not like the old days.’