A new car, fully filled with petrol, and another petrol can in the boot took me fifteen minutes to procure. The men in the motor pool were so glad to see the back of me, they never even questioned my motives for my impending trip.
They even threw in a couple of roadmaps which covered all of Germany, France and the Low Countries.
Despite the amount of military traffic on the roads, I drove into Holland at the end of the day. To my ever-growing bravado, my uniform caused so much consternation in the ranks of the regular German army that I rarely had to show my ID, and never had to discuss my orders, motives or plans at all.
I spent the next night in Meppel. The room cost me twenty marks, and a full breakfast another five. First thing the next morning I slipped into a local barber for a haircut and shave, grateful that my facial hair was one of the slowest growing on the planet.
With my boyhood school geography guiding my choice of departure, I headed for Rotterdam, getting into the city in the late afternoon. With directions from any German uniform I saw, I reached the main part of the port in twenty minutes. The men quickly directed me to the Naval Director, who I treated with respect; there was no need to place barriers in my way. Incredibly, despite his vast superiority in rank, Rear-Admiral Gerhardt still looked nervous in my company.
“I require passage to England, Herr Admiral.”
“That can be done,” he glanced at me, refusing to meet me eye to eye for more than a second or two. “Do you have official orders, Herr Capitan?”
“Only from the Chancellery itself; I am a personal messenger of the Imperium.” I had heard the term only a few times, but knew it meant the inner sanctum of the Führer himself. I swear the man flinched, and I made a mental note to use the phrase again. I made no move to show him any orders, and Gerhardt paused for only a moment before obviously dismissing the idea of asking to see any.
The man cleared his throat before speaking. “If you do not mind a bumpy ride, I have a regular post-run twice a day; here to London.”
“Bumpy?” I sighed to outwardly show my impatience. “What kind of craft are you using?”
“Schnellboots, of course. The trip is only six hours.”
I pretended to consider it. In truth I couldn’t believe my luck; to be in London in six hours was incredibly fast. “When does the next boat leave?”
The Rear-Admiral looked up at the wall clock. “In two hours.”
I too glanced at the clock. Ten to six. “At eight o’clock?”
Gerhardt nodded.
“Where is it located?”
“Next to the radio station. You can’t miss it, there’s a large antenna on top of the building. Berth 36.”
I leaned over his desk and shook his hand. “Thank you, Admiral, you are doing God’s business.” Then I straightened stiffly and gave him a crisp thirty degree salute. “Heil Hitler!”
The E-Boat at berth 36 was already being loaded as I approached, a single gang-plank led down to the boat. A wary captain watched from the bridge, marking every step I made from under his peaked cap. “Is this the mail-run to London, Captain?” I called down.
“It is.” For the first time since donning the uniform, the man in front of me did not flinch. I found myself liking the captain immediately.
I took off my own cap lessening the haughty persona the uniform automatically exuded. “I have been given permission from Admiral Gerhardt to cadge a ride. Permission to come on board, sir?”
He simply nodded. “We can do that, Captain.” He indicated the ramp, and I walked slowly down. The wood was wet, slippery, and I held on tightly to the chain at the side.
“Jürgen Seeler.” I stuck out my hand to shake his, dropping my rank intentionally.
“Gorge Hauser.” He looked out at the seamen for a second, watching them work, then his gaze came back to me. He paused in his examination for a short moment. “How does it feel to be among the most feared men in the Reich?”
Yup, I liked him a lot. “Sometimes it’s a pain in the arse.” I laughed. “My placement in the regiment was my father’s idea, not mine.”
“But you admit it has its benefits?”
“Oh, benefits, yes, but also just the uniform itself puts up so many people’s barriers, it’s annoying. Even the Admiral himself.”
Captain Hauser was a breath of fresh air in my lightning trip through Europe. Although he was in charge of his craft at all times, he spent a good deal of time in conversation, and when we parted at the dock in London, we shook hands firmly.
“Have a good war, Gorge,” I said, and I meant it.
“You too,”
On the short taxi-ride into town I found that even at two in the morning, London still had a night-life. I was deposited at the Brunswick Hotel, and after throwing two whisky’s over my neck in the busy bar, retired to my room. The bar was full of German uniforms, but none spoke to me, no one moved to break the mold as Captain Seeler had done.
I slept well that night, and rose with a purpose the next morning, changing my marks to pounds at the desk. I knew the rate would be steeper than a bank, but I simply didn’t have the time to waste.
At the personal recommendation of the desk clerk, I walked to Brent’s, a local gents outfitter, and kitted myself in everything from hat to underpants. It took a good deal of my remaining cash, but I needed to slip into some form of innocuousness, not travel to Edinburgh sticking out like a sore thumb.
Especially not a leather-coated SS Hitler-loving one.
With the purchase of a suitcase to carry my uniform and weapons, I walked out of the store an hour later, looking and feeling every bit a simple British chap, albeit that every piece of clothing I wore was brand new. I had gone for casual rather than business; brown trousers, tweed jacket, and a nice neutral grey fedora to complete the look.
As I got out of the taxi at Kings Cross Station, I waited for the first cocky German guard to stop me.
“Papers?”
What the coal-scuttle helmeted brute didn’t expect was my new identity.
Jürgen Seeler. Waffen SS.
1st SS Panzer Division Leibstandarte SS Adolf Hitler (LSSAH)
He snapped to attention. “Heil Hitler!” Immediately embarrassing me and attracting the most unwanted stares from my surrounding Brits. I made a mental promise to warn the soldier next time.
Even though my journey had been a complete opposite of the previous one, I still spent so much of the journey north in frustration at the pace of the train. I read The Times, then swapped it with another passenger for The Daily Express. Each told the same propaganda-filled rhetoric; Germany was conquering Russia, American islands were wilting under Japanese invasion, and not one mention of the war in the desert.
I wondered if the average man in the street believed the rubbish.
Evening was falling in Edinburgh by the time I’d stowed my case in the Left-Luggage department, and I knew I had little time to spare. I got a taxi to Gilmerton, and walked the now familiar path to the S.O.E. farm. As I walked in the darkness, my mind wandering, I realized that I’d been gone for just over two weeks.
It was pretty dark by the time I walked into the courtyard.
“Who goes there?” a voice hissed from the gloom. “Friend or foe?”
“Friend,” I almost laughed, yeah, I was going to answer foe, and get shot just for a joke.
“What business you got here?” The crunch of footsteps came from the sound of the voice. I heard more movement behind me.
“I need to speak to Ivanhoe.”
I realized a shape in the darkness in front of me, and felt hands searching over my body.
“He’s clean.”
Inside the farmhouse, I saw some familiar faces, then my boss appeared. “Holy crap.” He said, his eyes wide. “How the heck did you get back so quick?”
I looked at the others. “I need the room, chaps.”
Ivanhoe nodded and they moved out, leaving the two of us alone.
“Okay, from the top down. The man in Sweden, Simpson, he’s a double agent, and probably been sabotaging every attempt we’ve made to infiltrate Peenemünde. I got away, obviously. Simpson has to be dealt with. There’s also a new weapon, bigger than the V-1, Ivanhoe, it scared the shite out of me, I can tell you.”
“You saw it?”
“Everyone within a ten mile radius saw it. I witnessed a test launch. It flew up like a fiery phoenix, but that’s probably not the most important item.” I told him of the V-1 ramps on the back of the German warship.
“They could be for catapulting planes.” He said.
I shook my head. “There wasn’t enough room under the top one for a full plane. I tell you, I seen the ramps in Sicily, and these were exactly the same.”
For a moment the room was silent.
Then Ivanhoe barked. “Christine! Get me Echelon on the blower!” He turned to me, his voice dropped to a whisper. “You know what this means, don’t you?”
“Aye. De-breifings.”
He shook his head. “The stuff you’ll be going through will make de-briefings look like child’s play.”
“Oh crap.”