“How excellent, Theodor… please have your cook bring an espresso down for The Director… a double-strength with just one sugar, if you would… and please… both of you… call me Gerhard!”
“Straight away… Gerhard,” Detmers nodded slowly as they reached the steps up to the ship’s deck, unable to contain the grin that forced its way into his expression in reaction to the man’s infectious good humour. “I’ll see to it as soon as we’re aboard.”
“Just the thing…!” Fuchs exclaimed, slapping a hand on the commander’s shoulder. “I’ll see to the loading down here then join you on deck shortly.”
“I’ll give you a hand,” Oetzel offered, his mood also buoyed by such obvious good cheer. “The wharf crew sometimes need a naval officer’s touch when kicking their arses into imitating something resembling work.” The pair turned and headed back toward the trucks as Detmers shook his head with a smile and made his way back up the stairs to the ship’s main deck.
As he stepped aboard moments later, Detmers’ first task was to send a rating off to the galley with the coffee order before directing the ship’s quartermaster to have the loading crew prepared to receive the final pieces of cargo. Turning back to stare down at the docks below, he could see Fuchs and Oetzel already standing by one of the middle trucks as half a dozen solders worked to pull off the canvas cover. In the flat cargo bed beneath, a single large crate measuring approximately one metre square by two-point-five long lay secured to a specially-made loading tray constructed by hammering together three German-standard one-metre-square forklift pallets.
A lifting harness of heavy-duty chains was already being connected at eight points around the tray’s base as the nearest of the dock’s cranes turned slowly in their direction. As the tarpaulins were removed from the cargo bed of the other covered Opel, a second identical crate was also revealed for all to see.
Detmers had no idea what was inside either of the containers. Like the rest of his special cargo, they were listed as ‘Verschlusssache’ – classified – and as such his security clearance wasn’t high enough for him to be privy to their contents. His orders were simply that he was to deliver the goods to Tokyo prior to being released to normal commerce raiding duties in the Indian Ocean and South East Asia, operating out of the Vichy naval base at Cam Ranh Bay in French Indochina. Those were his instructions and it was his duty to comply as directed: that was all Detmers needed to know, or cared about.
With a large, cork-topped Thermos vacuum flask in one hand, Untersturmführer Milo Wisch dodged between the multitudes of dockworkers milling about at the shipyard that morning as he made his way back toward the large, amphibious assault ship Albert Schlageter. A young, dark-haired man of medium height and athletic build, he’d only recently received promotion to his current rank and had taken command of a troop of main battle tanks as a result. At just twenty-five years of age, he felt he’d done well in his military career so far, in that he’d joined the Waffen-SS as an enlisted man just three years before and had already managed to reach the rank of lieutenant in a relatively short time. Of course, the war itself had played no small part in aiding his rapid advancement. As a newly-promoted corporal at the time of the invasion of Great Britain two years earlier, he’d been a tank gunner with 2nd Troop of 3rd Company of what – at the time – had been known as the 3rd SS Shock Division: the renown (some might instead say ‘infamous’) Totenkopf Division.
Wearing black trousers and a similarly-coloured double-breasted, hip-length tunic that was the standard field dress of both army and Schutzstaffeln panzer units, only the SS runes and rank insignia at his collar set him apart from any other tank crewman belonging to either service and Wisch himself was happy to keep it that way. Filled with esprit de corps, and fiercely proud as he was of his unit, its battle honours and its fighting prowess, the young officer nevertheless had no great desire to be specifically identified as one of Hitler’s ‘chosen elite’, which was the image of the Waffen-SS to the majority of civilians, German or otherwise.
Prior to the outbreak of the Second World War, the Schutzstaffeln had been an exclusive ‘Nazi club’ where only the most fervent, rabid proponents of Adolf Hitler and the Aryan ideal were considered welcome or likely to advance very far in either combat units or in the administrative arms of the organisation. While this generally remained the case within the Schutzstaffeln’s non-combat arms – the Allegemeine-SS for example – the situation had changed dramatically within the Waffen-SS in the three years since war had begun. A massive expansion of the combat role the service had been required to perform leading up to and after the 1940 invasion of Great Britain had forced the relaxation of many political and ideological prerequisites in order to make up the required manpower numbers.
His progress was impeded momentarily as a cluster of dock workers secured a load of munitions for one of the huge loading cranes, and as he waited for the cargo to be hoisted into the air he took a moment to throw a glance toward a cluster of men standing beside a nearby Maybach limousine. One of them, Direktor Hegel, was as well known to Wisch as he was to any German, military or otherwise, and Milo ensured his eyes were turned in that direction for just a second or two before he continued on his way at a slightly increased pace.
There were times when it wasn’t advisable to draw too much attention upon one’s self and the young officer somehow recognised instinctively that that particular moment was one of them. A few minutes more and he was bounding up the nearest gangway and making his way through the myriad of corridors within the hull of the huge vessel with his boots ringing faintly on the diamond-plate steel deck as he walked.
It was a good fifteen minutes or so before Wisch finally made his way through the insides of the ship and found himself in the open once more, although that time had included five minutes or so or backtracking after having taken a wrong turn at one point during the journey. He stepped out onto the long, broad flight deck through a bulkhead at the forward end of the main island superstructure and continued on at the same brisk pace, heading toward the bow of the vessel while all around him the crew frenetically went about their duties as they prepared the ship for departure.
Pallets of food, supplies and munitions were being deposited directly onto the deck by loading cranes, only to be instantly collected again by a squadron of small, gasoline-powered forklifts and carried off toward the pair of large aircraft elevators on the far side of the ship’s flight deck. The cargo would then be taken down into the hull to be stored below decks for the long voyage ahead. The forklift trucks buzzed this way and that, expertly threading their way between parked aircraft as aircrews went about their own daily routines of checks and training. Half a dozen twin-engined transport helicopters, two gunships and four J-4E fighters were parked on the forward half of the flight deck, all undergoing either flight preparations or scheduled maintenance routines.
Albert Schlageter was brand new, having been commissioned into service just three months earlier. At almost 40,000 tonnes, she was as large as a conventional aircraft carrier and could easily have been mistaken for one with her ‘straight-through’, full-length flight deck. Indeed, her displacement was as great as the largest of the US Navy’s current carriers – USS Lexington – and although she was slightly shorter at 250m long, her beam and draft were both greater, providing the ship with excellent stability and sea worthiness.
It was beneath the long, steel flight deck however that the vessel differed dramatically from a conventional aircraft carrier. The Lexington could carry ninety aircraft within her hangars while Albert Schlageter stored just a third that many, and the majority of those were helicopters rather than fighter or attack planes. She was a new type of ship class known as an amphibious assault vessel and instead of large internal hangars, her below deck spaces were designed to transport an 1800-strong heavy battalion of combat troops supported by six main battle tanks and more than forty other armoured vehicles of various types, along with eighty or more trucks with supplies and munition
s to suit.
Milo paid no heed on his travels to the fact that the airmen and ship’s crew around him were all dressed completely in black, rather than the customary blue trousers and white tunics of the Kriegsmarine. Amphibious assault ship Albert Schlageter was the second ship in its class, with two more building, and was as completely a part of the Waffen-SS as the aircraft, tanks, armoured vehicles and fighting men she carried within her hull… all part of the huge expansion of the Schutzstaffeln’s combat role within the armed forces of Nazi Germany.
Just a few years older than Wisch and of similar build, height and appearance, Sturmbannführer (Major) Berndt Schmidt was seated exactly where Milo had expected to find him. At the foremost part of the ship’s bow, a few metres below the level of the broad, flat flight deck, a pair of long, narrow sponsons projected on either side, each mounting a pair of light AA emplacements that were of a design taken directly from that of the turret of the P-11 Wirbelwind mobile flak vehicle. Although modified to feed from large-capacity magazines below decks and controlled by centralised director fire, each turret nevertheless still mounted the same quartet of lethally-accurate 23mm cannon for close-in defence against attacking aircraft.
During their time since being posted to the vessel, Schmidt and a few of the other officers had discovered a small, recessed ‘balcony’ of sorts nestled between that pair of flak turrets. With the overhang of the flight deck above providing some marginal cover against the elements, the area was barely large enough to fit a small table and some folding chairs, and the group – having decided to name itself the ‘Kaffeeklatsch’ – used their free time there to smoke, talk and play the occasional game of cards, all the while consuming copious amounts of strong coffee whenever it was available.
There were two others present with Schmidt as Milo made his way quickly down the last set of steps from the flight deck: Hauptsturmführer Lukas Metzger, a captain on the battalion staff who worked closely with Schmidt, and Untersturmführer Felix Böhm, a pilot of one of the unit’s assault helicopters. The trio were engaged in a rather animated and vocal game of skat, with Schmidt (the dealer) and Metzger engaged in friendly disagreement over a particular point of contention regarding whether or not one of the major’s bids had been accepted.
One of the reasons Milo enjoyed the company of the others in the Kaffeeklatsch was the fact that none of them maintained any recognition of rank while together as a group. Schmidt was the CO of 1st Company of the 3rd SS Schweres Amphibisch Sturmbann (SS Heavy Amphibious Battalion) and was also Wisch’s commanding officer as a result, yet he also held to the same rule of informality within the group and in fact was often the practice’s greatest proponent. While spending time within their off-duty ‘sanctuary’, each treated the other as an equal and all present were accorded the level of respect that would be customary between fellow combat veterans of an elite force.
“About bloody time, man…!” Schmidt declared with mock severity and a wide grin, catching sight of Milo as he reached the bottom of the stairs. “We were about to ask the flight deck to initiate ‘search and rescue’ procedures!”
“I feel honoured,” Wisch replied with a wry smile. “I’m surprised you lot managed to look up from your cards long enough to notice I was gone.”
“Oh, the ‘rescue’ would’ve been for the coffee first,” Metzger shot back with a chuckle. “We’d ask them to consider going back for you of course… fuel permitting…” Just the week before, Milo had discovered a childhood friend had been posted to the galley of the commerce raider docked directly ahead of their vessel and – more importantly – that they also had an espresso machine on board.
“Nice to know you all have my best interests at heart,” Milo observed drily. “Considering who I ran into down there on the docks today, perhaps one of you could lend me some garlic or a wooden stake next time you ungrateful bastards send me off for your morning coffee!”
“Has someone been frightening one of my poor, battle-hardened junior officers?” Schmidt’s effort at displaying concern contained marked insincerity, although despite the smile he was now quite interested in what Milo had to say in that moment and laid his cards face down on the table. “What’s going on down there… anything we should know about?” The group might be off duty, but he was a unit commander nevertheless and Milo had never known Berndt Schmidt to let important information slip past him unnoticed.
“Director Hegel’s visiting our friends ‘down the lane’ this morning,” the lieutenant answered with a shrug. “His big bloody Maybach is down there right now along with several truckloads of troopers and a sewing machine for muscle …” Although officially named Wirbelwind, the P-11 series of flak vehicles had been colloquially christened the ‘Devil’s Sewing Machine’ by the troops in reference to the unique sound of its four cannon when firing.
“Now why would a grubby little commerce raider warrant the presence of one of ‘Them’, along with all that firepower?” Schmidt mused softly, his curiosity well and truly piqued as he rose from the table and walked across to the low railing that ran along the outer edge of the sponson between the anti-aircraft mounts at either end. Leaning over the barrier slightly to improve his field of view, he stared down toward the docks below as workers milled about the small convoy of trucks, preparing for the cargo to be loaded.
“All that for two bloody crates…?” Schmidt continued, slipping a small, low-powered rifle scope from the pocket of his trousers and raising it to one eye as the others gathered at the railing beside him, also interested. “Bloody big crates…” he conceded with a faint grimace “…but just two all the same. Not wood either… metal casings of some kind…” He paused for a moment as the first crate was hoisted into the air beneath the cable of a large dock crane, his spotting scope following every movement as the load was swung across to the deck of the ship ahead, momentarily passing close by in the process. “Thin steel sheet,” he added, frowning as he made one final observation, “but I can see where one’s had a corner damaged and what’s underneath looks different… looks like… lead…?”
“Lead…?” Metzger repeated dubiously, leaning out over the rail behind Schmidt to an almost dangerous distance as he took a look for himself. “What in God’s name would need a box lined with lead that couldn’t be better served by steel or aluminium?”
“Heavy too, even if it’s only thin,” Böhm chimed in thoughtfully, “and it’s not likely to be thin: looks to be two or three metres long and you’d need a lot of lead to maintain its integrity with something that size… the stuff’s too soft.” He shrugged. “Either that or use another inner shell of steel for support.” Felix Böhm’s father had spent his entire life working with metal and owned a chain of foundries in the Ruhr Valley. None of the others present doubted the young man’s observations for a moment. “Still, it doesn’t make sense: as you said, Lukas; why not use something stronger and lighter like steel alone.”
“Well they’ve got the insignia of the RFR stamped all over them, so your guess is as good as mine – they’re involved in all kinds of unusual shit. It’s obviously something important enough to make one of The Directors think it worthwhile to venture out into the sunlight,” Schmidt observed with a wry smile. “Perhaps we should be carrying some garlic about with us, or at least have the ship’s chaplain bless the water in our canteens.”
“You men, there…! What do you think you’re doing?” The bellowed words reached them from somewhere below and all four looked down to see a captain of the feldgendarmerie glaring up at them from docks beside the ship, his shiny military police gorget hanging on a chain about his neck for all to see.
“Enjoying some free time minding our own business, Herr Hauptmann, thank you for asking,” Schmidt called down, affecting a broad smile and a friendly tone although there was a hardened edge beneath the words that suggested he thought the MP should perhaps do the same. Milo noted that his CO’s hands tightened their grip around the railing at the same time, and the young man had no doubt hi
s commanding officer would be fuming internally at being addressed in such a fashion by an MP of lesser rank.
“It’s been noticed you lot have been paying attention to matters that don’t concern you. I suggest you all tend to your own affairs rather than sticking your noses where they don’t belong!”
“I’ve no doubt that message came from a good deal higher up than you, Mein Herr,” Schmidt conceded, recognising that the man had clearly come under orders from Director Hegel, or someone close to him. “In deference to that fact, we’ll do our best to heed your ‘advice’; however I’d also bring to your attention the fact that you’re addressing a sturmbannführer of the Waffen-SS, and as such I’d appreciate a little more respect when being addressed by a junior officer!” The last sentence hadn’t been shouted as such – not any louder than was necessary to be heard over the general background noise of a busy wharf, in any case – but the tone had hardened now to the point of being a clear rebuke.
“Heil Hitler, Mein Herr…!” Accepting the reprimand with as much good grace as he could muster, the captain decided discretion was the better part of valour in that particular situation and gave a stiff, Nazi salute before turning on his heels and disappearing quickly into the bustling, crowded wharf.
“It appears we’ve been sent a warning,” Schmidt observed warily, forcing himself to step away from the railing and return to his table as the others followed suit.
“Bloody cheek: setting the ‘Chain-Dogs’ on us, if you please…!” Metzger growled, as unimpressed over the situation as the others as they all slumped back into their chairs, and Milo took a seat at the bottom of the steps leading back up to the flight deck, the Thermos of coffee still in his hands and momentarily forgotten.
“Best we think ourselves lucky that was all we had to deal with!” Schmidt countered in a sober tone. “Sturmbannführer I may be, but I’m not stupid enough to press my luck where The Directors are concerned and I’d be far happier not to be remembered, thanks all the same!”
Winds of Change (Empires Lost Book 2) Page 2