Bruckner tucked his white hat beneath his arm. “Kapitanleutnant Bruckner of the U-582 reporting as ordered, Sir,” he said as he rendered a passable military salute.
“Heil Hitler!” the Adjutant replied with a rigid Nazi salute. With those two greetings in that time and place, the two men had defined the totality of their differences. The Adjutant looked down at a piece of paper in front of him. “Ah, yes, Bruckner of the U-582,” he said as his beady little eyes quickly turned hostile. “The one with that impertinent old flag this morning.”
“Impertinent?” Bruckner bristled.
“Impertinent, insubordinate, and utterly lacking in proper party spirit.” The man held the paper up and waved it over his head. “And from this report, it would appear you also disobeyed a direct order and entered my port without waiting for the pilot.”
“Your port?”
“We have rules, at least since I’ve been here, and the reckless endangerment of a naval vessel is not something we take lightly.”
Bruckner could not believe what he was hearing. This talking egg had the gall to lecture him about seamanship. The Kapitan clenched his teeth and glared at him. “I’m afraid we received no such order. Our radio is…”
"Of no concern to me!" The Adjutant dismissed the excuse with a sweep of his hand. “Well, the Admiral left strict instructions that you were to be brought to him the instant you arrived, so I’m sure you haven’t heard the last of this sordid matter. No, indeed!”
The Adjutant rose in a huff, his precious report clutched in his fingers as he led Bruckner down the hallway to the rear offices. When they reached the last door, he rapped his knuckles on the frame as Bruckner straightened his shabby uniform. They entered the Admiral’s office and both men came to rigid attention the prescribed three paces from the Admiral’s desk. Instead of fear and anxiety, Bruckner could not help but smile as he recognized the gray-haired officer in the chair in front of him.
“Eric, my boy! God, but it’s good to see you,” came the familiar voice of Admiral Georg Schwanger. “It has been too many years since the bridge of the old Gneisenau, eh?”
Bruckner nodded. To a young ensign, Schwanger was one of those rare men who could fill a room whenever he stepped inside. Still, it had been seven years since he had seen the ‘Old Man’ and Schwanger looked thin and tired, a pale shadow of the dynamo who could enthrall a bridge full of young officers.
“That will be all, Bosch.” The Admiral dismissed his startled Adjutant with a contemptuous flip of his hand.
“But my report, sir?” Bosch fumbled. "I thought…”
“You? You ‘thought’?” The Admiral’s angry eyes raked the poor man. “You haven’t had an original thought since you opened the cover of Mein Kampf. Now get out, or you’ll spend the night painting channel buoys in a dinghy.”
Bosch’s bald head turned crimson as he scurried from the room as fast as his feet would carry him. Once they were alone, the Admiral slumped heavily in his chair. “Not much of a victory, was it?” His voice faded to a whisper.” Oh, I could fire him or send him off to the trenches, but they’d only send another one to take his place.”
“Another one?" Bruckner asked, confused.
Schwanger looked at him with a sad, understanding smile. “You’ve been out at sea, Eric. There’s no way you could know what we’ve been forced to put up with. You see, Bosch is my personal spy, sent from Berlin to watch me. All the senior officers have them, so I guess I should be flattered. Like the gold braid and the gray hair, they come with the rank now.”
Bruckner was shocked. “Our Navy? They are spying on you?”
“It isn’t our Navy anymore, Eric, at least not the one you and I knew. It is their Navy, and their Army, and their Air Force too, no doubt. Not that it matters. Bosch is a sniveling little shit, but he keeps the files straight and makes a passable cup of coffee. That’s a damned sight better than the one before him.”
“That is an outrage, Sir!”
“An outrage?" Schwanger paused and reflected. “Eric, there are outrages and then again there are outrages. Some are petty, like Bosch; but some are so monstrous that even calling them an outrage is inadequate. But no more of that,” he said with a sweep of his hand. “I refuse to let them ruin the joy of seeing you again, my boy. Real officers are as rare as a warm summer day here, and I’m so pleased to see you.” Finally, the old man reached for his intercom. “Bosch, go to Sturmbannführer Kruger’s quarters. Tell him the U-582 has arrived and Kapitan Bruckner is here in my office, and be quick about it.”
Bruckner was puzzled. “An SS Major? What on earth does he want with me?”
Schwanger shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know, Eric. Truly, I don’t.”
“Is that why they brought me here? Because of this Kruger fellow?”
“I would assume so, but they no longer tell me anything,” Schwanger said as he leaned forward. “This SS Major came here from Berlin, from Hitler himself, for God’s sake; and he has a platoon of the Leibstandarte to prove the point. Unfortunately, you and your U-boat belong to him now.”
Bruckner was speechless.
“You cannot possibly know what they are like, and I pray you never will.” He shook his head. “If only that poor wretch Stauffenberg had placed his bomb a little closer.”
Bruckner couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Admiral Schwanger personified the old Prussian officer’s code of duty, honor, and country. For him to sympathize with the men who tried to assassinate Hitler the previous July was incredible.
“Promise me one thing, Eric,” the Admiral’s eyes pleaded. “Don’t argue with the man. Tell him what he wants to hear, do what he tells you to do, but don’t argue with him. You might think he’s a brother officer, but he isn’t. He’s gutter trash, a hired killer, and no gentleman. One look in his eyes will tell you he is not to be trusted. So do what he says. Do whatever you must. Just get your boat and your crew out of this hell-hole and back at sea where you’ll be out of their grasp.”
“But, Admiral, I…”
“No buts, my boy. The war is lost; everyone knows that. Let your conscience be your guide and no one whose opinion you value will ever criticize you for anything you must do. But remember, you’re a commissioned naval officer, first, last, and forever." Schwanger paused, his lips trembling. “That is the one thing they can never take away from you; that, and your honor.”
CHAPTER FIVE
When the tall, blond SS officer strode into the room wearing that mud-spattered great coat and an all-knowing smirk, Admiral Schwanger mumbled an awkward excuse about a staff meeting and quickly left. They all knew it was a lie, but it went unchallenged. As his hand touched the doorknob, he glanced back at Bruckner as if he wanted to say more but couldn’t find the words — couldn’t, or didn’t dare. So he quietly slipped out the door and left the two young officers alone.
Bruckner glared at Kruger. “The Admiral is a good man,” he felt compelled to say.
“I’m sure he was, but I can buy ‘good’ men on any street corner in Berlin,” Kruger answered with those cold blue eyes. “So tell me you aren’t one of those useless antiques, Kapitan. That would make things more difficult for both of us, and it will change nothing.” As Kruger pulled off his heavy, mud-stained greatcoat and tossed it on a side chair, his scarf fell open to reveal the Knight’s Cross First Class with Swords and Diamonds hanging around his neck. Bruckner had never seen one before. It was a true soldier’s medal given by the Führer’s own hand and the Kaiser’s before him for repeated acts of extreme bravery. With the soiled uniform, scuffed boots, and that medal, it was clear this fellow wasn’t some political hack who did his fighting behind a desk. To a civilian, Bruckner’s white hat and Kruger’s SS death’s-head insignia were roughly equal; but throw in that medal and the arrogant smirk, and it was no contest.
“Oh, relax, Kapitan,” he said as he plopped his weary frame in the Admiral’s chair and propped his long legs on the corner of the Admiral’s desk. “I rarely dine
on naval officers, at least not this early in the day.” Bruckner stared across at him, but he didn’t rise to the bait. Kruger smiled. “Well, now that we’ve circled each other and finished our sniffing, let’s get down to business, eh? You don’t like me dropping in on your naval operations any more than I like being here, but we are officers, you and I. We do our jobs and we follow orders, whether we like them or not. That said, you need to know I’m here on a top-secret mission. It comes from the highest authority in the Reich, and I know I’ll have your full cooperation in carrying it out, won’t I?”
“I didn’t think I had a choice,” Bruckner finally responded.
“No, you don’t,” Kruger seemed amused by the challenge. “And to be absolutely certain that you understand me, perhaps you should read this.” Kruger reached inside his tunic, pulled out the sheet of heavy bond paper Bormann had given him, and pushed it across the desk. Bruckner calmly looked down. At the top, he saw the most feared letterhead in all of Nazi Germany: an embossed black and red swastika surrounded by a garland of gold. Beneath that were typed the words:
Office of the Reichsführer – SS
Reich Ministry of the Interior
February 9, 1945
MOST SECRET
SS Sturmbannführer Heinz Kruger is acting on my personal orders regarding a matter of utmost importance. He is to be obeyed in all matters, regardless of rank or other orders to the contrary, under penalty of high treason.
Heinrich Himmler
Bruckner sat stunned staring at the simple, scrawled signature. He read the short letter again, and then a third time as his mouth turned dry. He knew he was doomed.
Kruger chuckled to himself. Himmler? Bormann’s fiercest rival? Who said he didn’t have a sense of humor. “Like a bucket of ice water on a cold morning, that signature does get one’s blood flowing, doesn’t it,” Kruger said as he retrieved the letter and slipped it into his pocket. “You were brought here for a very important reason, Kapitan. Your mission is absolutely vital to the war effort, and you are now under my personal orders and no one else’s. Clear?”
Bruckner nodded woodenly.
“Excellent,” Kruger said with a broad, friendly smile. “You’ll find I’m a very easy fellow to get along with — a pussy cat, really — provided you follow orders. I can’t tell you what they are or what your mission is, not yet anyway; but it should be a milk run compared to what you’ve been doing,” he said. “So tell me, how soon can you have your ship ready to leave?"
“In the first place, Sturmbannführer Kruger, the U-582 is a boat, not a ship — an old, badly battered rust-bucket of a boat, I’m embarrassed to say. And when can we have it ready for sea? Maybe a week? Maybe never.”
Kruger’s smile faded. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“We’ve been out at sea on a combat patrol for seven straight weeks and she’s had the hell kicked out of her for most of the winter. Then you ordered us to turn east and race the whole length of the Baltic to get here. That’s one hell of a lot of wear and tear for any boat that hasn’t had its normal maintenance stops, particularly a submarine.”
Kruger listened intently to every word, not interrupting, but clearly, the young, blond superman didn’t like what he had just heard.
“That’s the truth, Sturmbannführer Kruger. We were extremely fortunate to make it here at all.” Bruckner knew his life and his crew’s depended on his ability to make this infantry officer understand. “A U-boat is not a destroyer, or a battleship, or one of your tanks. It’s not enough to say that some of the machinery is working right or even that most of it is working right. If every piece and part isn’t working right, if a pipe bursts, or a battery fails, or one of a thousand other things go wrong when you’re down at three hundred feet, she’ll go to the bottom and she won’t come back up.”
Kruger began to argue, but Bruckner cut him off. “Have you ever been inside a U-boat? Not tied to the dock, but out on the high seas?” From Kruger’s expression, it was obvious he had not. “Then you cannot possibly imagine what it’s like to be inside a cold, sweating steel coffin as depth charges explode all around you. You feel it in your guts as the boat shakes and trembles. The metal plates shriek and groan like banshees from hell as you stand there freezing and sweating, waiting for the hull to crack open like a hot walnut and for ice-cold water to rush inside. Can you imagine what that’s like, hour after hour? Waiting to drown and knowing there’s nothing you can do to prevent it?”
Kruger’s tough-guy expression didn’t change, but his eyes flickered as the words sank home. Out on the Russian steppes this SS Major could go hand-to-hand with the Devil, but the open, storm-tossed sea was a different matter. He couldn’t shoot it, he couldn’t threaten it, and he couldn’t even begin to understand it. That was Bruckner’s edge.
“Major, my U-boat is worn out. I have one engine on its last legs, chattering and belching smoke. Several hull plates are sprung and I have cracked pipes, jammed valves, one dead battery cell, two torpedo tubes I don’t dare open, and God only knows what else wrong. In a word, she needs a complete overhaul; so if your mission is that important, I suggest you find yourself another boat.”
Kruger nodded as he considered Bruckner’s words. “I appreciate your candor, Bruckner, but there are no other boats available. None. The U-582 is it. There are, however, other captains available to take her out if you won’t. Is that what you want?” Kruger had done his homework, and Bruckner knew he’d just called his bluff. “I didn’t think so. Rest assured though, we have no more interest in seeing your boat go to the bottom than you do. So, if you need repairs, they’ll be made. Everything that’s wrong will be fixed to your satisfaction. Is that good enough? The entire shipyard is now yours for the next three days — every man, every tool, and every spare part — because that’s how much time we have to get the U-582 back to sea. Three days and not one minute longer.”
That said, Kruger picked up a pencil and a pad of paper from the Admiral’s desk and leaned forward, ready to take dictation. “Tell me what you need, Kapitan, I’m all ears.”
Three days. It took every hour working around the clock, but Kruger did what he said he would do. Within an hour of their meeting, the deserted submarine pen became a beehive of activity, filled with floodlights, a small army of mechanics with hoists, cables, pipes, hoses, and crates full of parts. By late afternoon, the young SS officer and his magic letter had produced a new engine, valves, batteries, rubber seals, sheet metal, and steel tubing. Gangs of shipyard workers put in hard twelve-hour shifts overhauling the U-boat from one end to the other. Not that it was perfect, but Bruckner had to admit his boat was in better shape than she’d been in many months.
But not everything was the way he wanted it. From his high perch in the conning tower, he watched as welding torches sent sparks cascading off the hull of the aft deck, building a steel frame of angle irons to hold a double row of fuel oil drums. This was another of Kruger’s “modifications.” Bruckner fumed. He had no idea what the blond bastard wanted with his submarine, but he could count. With fifty extra drums of fuel, the U-582 could travel more than ten thousand miles. To where? A combat patrol to North America? South Africa? Japan? They were all within reach now.
Bruckner had never paid any attention to rumors that swirl around naval bases. Still, he’d heard things. A boat and its crew would suddenly be shrouded in secrecy, outfitted and stuffed with food and fuel, then disappear. A secret mission? A long range patrol? A special target? Hard to say. Had the U-582 had been chosen to deliver one of the Führer’s new wonder weapons? Maybe to drop secret agents in New York or Boston? Or to take a new jet engine prototype to Japan? Or the plans for a new rocket? Could that be the answer? But if it was, why did Kruger remove the submarine’s deck gun? Its carriage was badly bent, but even a half-accurate eighty-eight millimeter cannon was better than no gun at all. Bruckner argued his case to no avail; the deck gun was gone. Worse, Kruger ordered the U-boat’s torpedo tubes welded shut and the torpedoes,
racks, and hydraulic gear taken apart and carted away. Both compartments were now empty. Like a big underwater barge, the U-582 now had nothing to defend herself, no weapons at all.
“You won’t need them,” Kruger ruled. “Your orders are to avoid contact with any ships whatsoever until you reach your destination. The mission is THAT secret, Bruckner. Besides, we need the room.”
The room? For what? Bruckner fumed, feeling betrayed.
“Relax,” Kruger tried to reassure him. “This will be a milk run. No enemy ships. No depth bombs. No shooting. In the end that’s going to SAVE your boat and your crew, and that’s something you care about, don’t you, Herr Kapitan?”
Bruckner knew the arrogant bastard had him, and he remembered what Admiral Schwanger told him. “Tell him what he wants to hear, don’t argue with him. Tell him what he wants to hear.” The quicker the repairs are completed, the quicker he could get out of here, away from Kruger and away from Königsberg.
It wasn’t until late afternoon on the third day that Kruger showed his real hand. The repair work was finished. Exhausted from their long shifts, the dockworkers packed their tools and shuffled out the doors into the darkness of the shipyard. Minutes later, the rear door of the submarine pen opened; five canvas-covered trucks rolled down the narrow pier and stopped beside the U-boat. Each had an SS guard on the running board and the first and last truck carried more heavily armed storm troopers with the black greatcoats and crossed white belts of the Leibstandarte. They quickly dismounted and spread out in defensive positions around the submarine pen, quietly and professionally.
The middle truck looked out of place and vaguely familiar. It was older, dented and mud spattered, with a piece of torn, faded canvas draped over the cargo bed. Its driver’s side door opened and Bruckner recognized his old friend Stolz. The truck driver waved to the bridge and went around to the rear of the truck to roust his ragged band of prisoners. Like a line of ants, they began unloading dozens and dozens of wooden crates from the other trucks. Some crates were small, others long and flat, and all of them very heavy. With two or even four men to a crate, they carried them up the gangway, and placed them in stacks on the fore and aft decks of the U-boat — up and back in an unending procession.
Cold War Trilogy - A Three Book Boxed Set: of Historical Spy Versus Spy Action Adventure Thrillers Page 39