U-235 was mid-Atlantic and had been submerged for the past twenty-eight hours since the lookouts had spotted an airplane on the horizon.
Mueller was lying on a paper-thin mattress in the rear torpedo room, contemplating the chaos of his life over the last eight years. He had joined the SS as a young man, enthused by the ideals of a party striving to gain his beloved country’s deserved place in the world. It had been exciting and he had rocketed through the ranks.
When war broke out, he and his men had been amongst the first into Poland and raged across the country almost unopposed in a frenzy of brutality and military might. Through the ensuing months his leadership skills, along with his undoubted bravery, ensured he continued to rise through the ranks and he ended up leading a spearhead battalion of SS in what was supposed to be a triumphant advance across Russia. But things hadn’t happened that way and here he was, almost certainly the sole survivor of his unit, disillusioned and heading somewhere across the other side of the world enclosed in the claustrophobic confines of an outdated U-boat.
Since joining the vessel a week earlier, the rear torpedo room had been his home and the mattress was spread out between two of the caskets containing the mummies of the First World War soldiers. The rest of the crew had been wary of him and only nodded in passing, avoiding the need to talk, but the captain had made it his business to come down and share coffee with him at least daily and since they had left Bergen they had struck up a strange friendship, both warriors albeit in different theatres.
Despite the relative isolation, Mueller was happy with his own company and the thought of being dragged into conversation with a group of unkempt sailors was one he did not relish. He had made his bed space as comfortable as possible and apart from the journeys to the toilet and the galley for a serving of the slop they called food, he kept his own company, along with a few of the dog-eared books that were kept on board.
As the machinery hummed around him, Mueller’s thoughts were interrupted when the bulkhead door swung open and clanged against the metal frame. He glanced over and was surprised to see the captain duck into the torpedo room.
‘Good evening, Hauptsturmführer Mueller,’ said the captain.
‘Captain Fischer,’ said Mueller. ‘I expected you earlier. I miss our little chats.’
‘Damage patrol,’ said Fischer. ‘Just a routine inspection after our little encounter with the Brits.’
‘And are we intact?’
‘More or less,’ said Fischer.
Mueller nodded. The U-boat had been on almost constant red alert as it sailed down through the Atlantic and had even suffered a depth charge attack from a British destroyer, not an experience Mueller wanted to go through ever again.
‘Still,’ said Fischer, ‘all that is hopefully behind us. We don’t expect any more trouble.’
‘What about the XX2?’ asked Mueller. ‘Did it get through?’
‘Indeed it did,’ said Fischer. ‘In fact, they have not been troubled at all, we saw to that.’
‘How?’
‘By drawing off the pursuers,’ said Fischer. ‘While we played hide and seek with the allies, the XX2 cruised quietly beneath them all unseen. I’m sure their special guests didn’t even know they were at risk.’
‘Special guests?’ asked Mueller. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh come on, Hauptsturmführer Mueller,’ said Fischer, ‘don’t play that game with me. Of all people, you should know what is going on here.’
‘I have no idea what you are talking about,’ said Mueller. ‘All I know is that we are escorting a prototype submarine carrying a valuable cargo to somewhere in the South Atlantic.’
Fischer paused before turning to a crew member who was greasing a set of levers on the wall.
‘Leave us,’ he ordered.
The sailor ducked through the door and closed it behind him. Fischer sat beside Mueller and reached into his jacket pocket.
‘Drink?’ he asked and offered Mueller a hip flask.
‘Alcohol on a U-boat,’ said Mueller as he took the drink, ‘I thought that was forbidden.’
‘It is,’ said Fischer, ‘and ordinarily there would be no trace of any on my boat, but this is different.’
‘Why?’ asked Mueller.
Fischer accepted the flask back and took his own drink.
‘Tell me, Hauptsturmführer…’ started Fischer.
‘Just call me Mueller,’ came the response.
‘OK, tell me, Mueller, what do you think this trip is all about?’
‘It depends,’ said Mueller.
‘On what?’
‘On how much you already know.’
Fischer laughed.
‘Don’t worry, Mueller,’ he said, ‘you don’t have to worry about surrendering some state secret to me. On the contrary, I probably know more about this thing than you. The difference is, unlike you, I am not a brainwashed automaton who blindly follows the doctrine of an Austrian madman without asking myself some serious questions.’
Mueller stared at the captain without speaking, but Fischer could see a spark of anger in his eyes.
‘Do I offend you, Mueller?’ asked the captain.
‘I wouldn’t say offend,’ said Mueller. ‘Let’s say amuse.’
‘And why are you amused?’
‘Because both you and I know that outside of this godforsaken cigar tube you call a boat, I would probably have shot you for that statement. The fact that both you and I know my life is in your hands gives you courage that may not be so forthcoming back on land. That type of false bravery amuses me.’
‘You still have your weapon, do you not, why not carry out your threat? There are other officers capable of sailing this boat and surely if you, as an SS officer, report that I was a traitor to the Führer, they would believe you.’
‘And are you a traitor?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Fischer. ‘I have captained several boats these past few years with much success, sending many enemy sailors to their watery graves. I have never questioned those orders and carried them out in the name of the fatherland and the German people. However, over the last year I have become sickened by the constant killing. Surely even the SS can see the futility of carrying on this conflict. The war is over, Mueller, yet Hitler continues to send good men to their deaths, and for what? Does he think we can magically turn this thing around? Of course not, it is nothing more than the last pages in a madman’s autobiography written in other men’s blood.’
‘We are still at war,’ said Mueller. ‘You have a duty to carry out your orders.’
‘And I will,’ said Fischer. ‘But that does not mean I have to agree with them.’
‘So why are you telling me this?’
‘Who else can I talk to?’ asked Fischer. ‘My men? I think not. As far as they are concerned, there is still a war worth fighting and a homeland that they can return to when all this is over. They are not privy to the same information that you and I are, Mueller, they think that this could be their last mission and they can return to their families on their farms and in the cities to start rebuilding the Germany they grew up in. I am not about to shatter their dreams with the truth, at least, not yet.’
‘And what is this truth you speak of?’ asked Mueller.
‘That this may indeed be their last voyage,’ said Fischer, ‘but when it’s over, they won’t be returning to Germany to rebuild their lives, but are far more likely to be facing the muzzles of an SS firing squad.’
Mueller was shocked and he knew his face showed it.
‘Why would you say that?’ asked Mueller.
Fischer took another drink from his flask.
‘Because of what I saw back in Bergen.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘After you came on board,’ said Fischer, ‘I was in the conning tower as we sailed from the pens. In the last few minutes before we left, I looked back and saw something I wasn’t supposed to see.’
‘And what was that?’ asked Mueller.
Fischer stared at Mueller, considering his options.
‘I’ll tell you what,’ he said finally. ‘You tell me what’s in these three crates and I’ll share my little secret with you.’
Mueller returned the captain’s stare before answering.
‘Tell me, captain,’ he said. ‘Why are you telling me this?’
‘Actually, I don’t really know,’ said Fischer. ‘But to be honest, I couldn’t care less. I am tired, Mueller, tired of war, tired of being afraid and tired of worrying about my men. If it wasn’t for my crew, I would happily put a bullet through my own head right now, but they deserve better. They have followed me all over the world, many from boat to boat, and they have always trusted me without question. We have fought together, drunk together and prayed together. Now, when the end is almost in sight, it seems that fate has one more cruel card to turn. If what I suspect is true, then these men have no future except a bullet from one of your comrade’s machine pistols.’
‘Yet still you came to me,’ said Mueller, ‘and as an SS officer, one of the potential perpetrators of this imagined fate.’
‘I did,’ said Fischer. ‘Don’t ask me why, but I just get a feeling that beneath that insignia there is possibly a good man.’
Mueller sneered.
‘You know nothing about me, Fischer,’ he said. ‘I have killed more men than I care to remember, some in cold blood. I too am fed up with this war, but will serve my uniform until ordered to stop.’
‘Your uniform?’
‘What about it?’
‘You said serve your uniform, not the Führer.’
‘A figure of speech,’ said Mueller.
‘No, it’s not,’ said Fischer. ‘I recognise your loyalty, Mueller, and indeed it is something to be admired. Like me, you have served alongside brothers in arms, growing an unbreakable bond to those who lived and died alongside you. That is a warrior’s loyalty, and I recognise that. What I can’t understand is the sort of loyalty that the Führer demands, the dictate that every man, woman and child fight to the bitter end in order to keep alive a mad dream that ended over a year ago. If Hitler had listened to his generals, this war could have ended long ago on fairly favourable terms, but I think that even when the Russians break down the doors of his bunker, he will not see the futility of it all. And now, when we are so close to the end, I fear that those fellow warriors that were once brothers in arms will turn on each other in desperation.’
‘I have no idea what you mean,’ said Mueller.
‘What’s in the crates, Mueller?’
‘What do you think they contain?’
‘I’m not sure, but probably looted valuables or religious artefacts. Either way I suspect that there is some sort of superstition attached.’
‘I have no problem showing you the contents,’ said Mueller, ‘but I wonder if you are strong enough to take it.’
‘Don’t worry about me, or indeed my men,’ said Fischer. ‘We are all veterans of many conflicts and it will take more than some mumbo jumbo to affect our resolve.’
Mueller paused again but eventually got up and walked across the room to remove a crowbar from a rack.
‘OK,’ he said, ‘but don’t say I didn’t warn you.’ He wedged the flat part of the bar under the lip of the lid and eased it upward, the nails screeching as they were withdrawn from the timber frame. Finally he removed the lid and leant it up against a wall.
‘There it is, captain,’ he said. ‘Drink it in.’
Fischer walked over and stared into the crate. His face remained impassive but his eyes widened in confusion.
‘What is this?’ he asked.
‘Dead comrades from a different era,’ said Mueller. ‘Don’t ask me why, for I don’t know, but they are here on the orders of Himmler himself.’
‘It doesn’t make any sense,’ said Fischer. ‘But whatever the reason, it is better that my crew doesn’t know about this.’
‘I told you it would make you uncomfortable,’ said Mueller with a look of amusement in his eyes.
‘The superstitious sailor in me is indeed uncomfortable,’ said Fischer, ‘but the captain in me knows it is the living that are dangerous, not the dead.’ He picked up the lid and placed it back on top of the casket.
‘So,’ said, Mueller, returning to the mattress, ‘your turn. What happened back in Bergen that makes you think your crew are in danger?’
Fischer took another drink from his hip flask before answering.
‘After the XX2 was loaded, all that remained was for us to do was escort it out of the pens,’ said Fischer. ‘However, at the last moment a convoy of vehicles came in through the loading bay. Within the convoy were four staff cars and the men who got out were escorted into the XX2, each with a blanket draped over their heads to hide their identity.’
‘So some politicians were making their cowardly escape,’ said Mueller. ‘Nothing new there.’
‘I agree,’ said Fischer, ‘but there was also a truck within the convoy. As soon as the VIPs had boarded the XX2, a squad of heavily armed SS disembarked and rounded up all the dock workers.’
‘And?’ asked Mueller, already guessing the answer.
‘They shot them, Mueller, every last one of them. Obviously I don’t know the exact reasons but I imagine that apart from the crew, no living person was to be left behind that knew about the last XX2 or its destination.’
‘Huber told me nothing about this,’ said Mueller.
‘Why would he?’ asked Fischer. ‘It seems to me you are just some stray he picked up along the way, nothing more than a pet. Look,’ he continued, when he saw the withering look on Mueller’s face, ‘whatever or whoever is on that boat alongside us, I don’t think they are keen for us to know the details. When we reach our destination, I fear that either we will be forced to stay there, or worse, we could be executed.’
‘Even if you are right,’ said Mueller, ‘why would you want to return to Germany?’
‘Our armies may be defeated,’ said Fischer, ‘but our families are still there. Yes, there may be a period of internment in a prisoner-of-war camp, but I can live with that. After five years in U-boats, it will seem like the ultimate in luxury.’
‘I still don’t know why you are telling me this,’ said Mueller.
‘Because there is a possibility you may share our fate.’
‘No, I think not,’ said Mueller. ‘I am here at the invite of General Huber himself.’
‘Is that the general who was organising everything on the dock?’ asked Fischer.
‘It is, he is on the other boat.’
Fischer shook his head.
‘I am afraid there is one more thing you need to know,’ said Fischer. ‘Though General Huber oversaw the executions himself, before the SS unit boarded the boat, another officer walked up behind Huber and shot him through the back of the head. Your benefactor is dead, Mueller, you are on your own.’