The Golden U-Boat

by Richard P. Henrick

  “Would you like something to eat first?” asked the Norwegian.

  “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary, Captain.

  Right now, that bunk sounds awfully inviting.”

  “Well in that case, follow me and I’ll show you the way. Soon we will be on our way to North Cape”

  The stateroom that Charles Kromer soon found himself in was more than sufficient. It was over twice the size of his cramped cabin on the Emden, and had a bunk bed, a desk, chair, and a small wash basin.

  To the chugging sound of the boat’s diesel engine, Kromer removed his shirt and went over to the basin to wash up. It felt good to bathe his face in hot water, and as he reached up to dry himself, he caught his reflection in the round mirror that was mounted beside the towel rack. His dark eyes were bloodshot, and had noticeable fatigue lines beneath them. His once jet-black hair seemed to have more gray in it than ever before. Thankful that he kept it regularly trimmed in a short crew cut, he scratched his square jaw, decided to wait until later to shave, and turned for his bunk.

  By the time he was stripped down to his skivvies, they were out to sea. As he lay on his back, with the fjord’s gentle swells rocking him to and fro, the veteran mentally visualized the route they would now be following. The Weser would leave Advent Bay and head due west down Ice Fjord. Soon the Russian coal town of Barentsberg would pass to their port and the boat would turn to the north, following the irregular coast of Spitsbergen to its northernmost extremity. Here they’d turn to the east for the final leg of their journey.

  All too soon these same waters would be choked in impenetrable ice. Such a trip would be impossible then, and would have to be accomplished by long-range helicopter. Glad to be travelling by way of his old friend the sea, Charles Kromer closed his eyes and drifted off into a deep, dreamless sleep that lasted nearly eight hours.

  He was jarred awake when a series of massive swells smashed into the boat’s hull. Nearly thrown out of his bunk by the force of these waves, Kromer did his best to stand and dress himself. With the deck rolling wildly beneath him, he decided to forget about trying to shave. Merely walking was difficult enough as he left his stateroom and entered the main cabin. A bald seaman was seated at the table here, calmly chewing away on a piece of raw herring and onion, while loose gear raided away on the deck beneath him.

  “Hello, sir,” greeted the weather-beaten seaman with a gravelly voice.

  “Would you like some breakfast?”

  Kromer was beginning to feel a bit seasick and graciously declined this offer.

  “Where can I find Captain Hansen?” he asked.

  “The skipper’s up in the wheelhouse with the ice pilot,” answered the seaman, who was also the Weser’s cook.

  “Perhaps I can whip you up some bacon and eggs.”

  Kromer shook his head.

  “Maybe in a little while, my friend. Right now, I’d just like to have a few words with the Captain.”

  The cook shrugged his skinny shoulders and went back to his meal, as Kromer crossed the constantly pitching deck like a drunken sailor on shore leave.

  He reached the shut hatch, and made certain that his oilskin was zipped up securely before ducking outside.

  The morning sun hung low in the blue sky and did little to counter the freezing gusts of wind that whipped over the ice-coated deck. Extra careful to keep a secure handhold, he began his way up the semi-enclosed stairwell that led directly to the wheel house. He gratefully ducked inside this compact, well-heated compartment that was dominated by a wraparound windshield and a modern control console.

  Seated before this console was the ship’s captain and an alert, broad-shouldered young man who currently had the Weser’s helm. A taut steel cable crossed the width of the cabin behind them, and it was on this object that Kromer steadied himself.

  “I see that we have a bit of a swell this morning, Captain,” observed Kromer as he tightly gripped the shoulder-high cable with both hands.

  Captain Hansen replied without diverting his glance from the windshield.

  “This is nothing, Herr Kromer. You should see these waters when a real gale is blowing. Why, just to remain seated in our chairs, we are forced to utilize our harness mechanisms.

  I hope that your quarters were sufficient. I’d like you to meet the Weser’s ice pilot, Sigurd Bjornsen.

  The hefty young Norwegian nodded curtly, all the while keeping his line of sight focused on the waters before them. Charles Kromer peered out the windshield himself and immediately spotted the huge noes of fractured ice that were a deadly hazard.

  “I’m surprised that these waters are even passable at this time of the year,” remarked Kromer.

  “They won’t be much longer,” returned the ice pilot with a grunt.

  “This will most probably be the last trip of the season,” added Captain Hansen.

  “The lead that we’re currently following is a result of our closeness to the coastline. Further out to sea, the ice pack is solid, and only specially designed vessels can transit it.”

  A monstrous berg of ice, many times larger than the Weser, passed by them to the starboard, and Kromer shuddered to think that nine-tenths of this giant was still hidden beneath the water. Still more bergs followed, yet the ice pilot didn’t actually pull back on the boat’s dual throttle until they spotted a nearly solid field of ice up ahead. A constant moaning, creaking groan accompanied this floe and they inched forward. A splintering crunch announced their first contact with it.

  Sigurd Bjornsen seemed unaffected by the steady grinding noise of the ice that sounded above that of the Weser’s engines. With an expertise developed after many years of experience, the Norwegian steered them through the thinnest portion of the floe with a minimum of backtracking.

  “At least we don’t have any fog to contend with,” offered the boat’s captain. He watched the ice pilot expertly steer them into an open lead of gray water.

  “Then Sigurd would really have to earn his paycheck.”

  The ice pilot grunted again and reached forward to reopen the throttles. Soon the solid flow was behind them, and Kromer noted that even the seas themselves were calmer here, especially when the Captain took the wheel and rerouted their previously north-easterly course to the south.

  A series of jagged black peaks formed the shoreline of the fjord that they soon entered. The wind had long since dissipated, and the sparkling, mirror-like waters were calm as a lake.

  “You can see our destination just up ahead of us, Herr Kromer,” said the Captain.

  “On the western shore of the fjord, beyond that flashing beacon.”

  Charles Kromer looked in the direction that the captain was now pointing and easily spotted the beacon Hansen had mentioned. It took a bit more searching on his part to pick out the actual settlement.

  Set at the foot of a mountainous ridge was a barely visible collection of manmade structures that made the remote outpost of Longyearben look like a bustling metropolis by comparison.

  As they continued their approach, Kromer identified the settlement’s dock area, that wasn’t much more than a wooden wharf with several mounds of coal heaped beside it. A single road led from this pier, passing half a dozen white-washed, two-story structures that appeared to be dormitories. Other than several corrugated steel warehouses, this seemed to be the extent of the town.

  As they passed by the beacon, the Weser’s captain pointed almost reverently to a single cottage that stood on the summit of a steep ridge of solid rock, that dropped straight down to the waters of the fjord below.

  “That’s the Director’s cottage,” he proudly revealed.

  “They say that its interior is furnished just like a Bavarian hunting lodge. Unfortunately, I’ve never been invited there to see for myself if this is true. Perhaps you will be luckier.”

  “Perhaps I will,” mumbled Kromer as he peered up at the sturdy A-frame structure that overlooked the majestic fjord and the settlement of North Cape down below, Kromer lef
t the confines of the wheelhouse and headed toward the foredeck as they prepared to dock. The air was cold and invigorating, and because the winds were gone, easily bearable. Several dock hands could be seen on the wharf. A large flag, fluttering from a tall metal pole, showed the earth with a golden star crowning the North Pole. The submariner had seen this pennant before, and knew very well that it represented the GermanArgentinian consortium that had bought this coal settlement from a Dutch concern over half a century ago.

  He couldn’t help but grin as he scanned the dock and spotted a tall, fair-haired, middle-aged man in a long navy peacoat. Quick to also spot Kromer, this figure waved and called out in greeting.

  “Welcome to North Cape, Captain!”

  Charles Kromer waited to respond until the boat reached the dock. The deckhands officially secured the Weser, and as he climbed onto solid land, Kromer accepted his welcomer’s firm handshake.

  “It’s good to see you again, Senior Lieutenant Kurtz,” said Kromer warmly.

  “It’s been much too long.”

  “It will be one year exactly this January” replied the former West German naval officer with a smile.

  “Well, is civilian life all that it’s cracked up to be?” asked Kromer with a wink.

  “I guess you’ll soon enough find out for yourself, eh, Captain?” returned Hans Kurtz who added.

  “Do you have much luggage?”

  “Only my seabag,” answered Kromer.

  “Then let me get it for you, and we can get going.

  The Director wants to see you at once.”

  In a matter of minutes Kromer’s seabag was stowed away inside the boot of their black Rover, and they were on their way down the settlement’s only road.

  “That’s some sea voyage from Longyearben, isn’t it Captain?” quizzed Kurtz as he guided the vehicle past the collection of dormitories.

  “That it is, my friend. Though I must admit that I slept through much of it. Those Norwegian rescue boats are solidly built, and my accommodations were surely more luxurious than aboard the Emden.”

  A grin turned the corners of Kurtz’s mouth at the mention of this sub.

  “She may have been a bit cramped, but the old lady was really something special. Are any of the old crew still aboard, Captain?”

  “The gang is long gone, Hans. Since you mustered out, the others followed in quick succession.

  Even Chief Dortmund left me. Though your replacements may have been young and bright, there seemed to be something lacking in their characters.

  Why, the majority of this new generation of submariners doesn’t even know what — it means to be a real German anymore.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” replied Kurtz as he guided the Rover up into the surrounding hills.

  Charles Kromer took advantage of the moment of reflective silence that followed to absorb the passing landscape. The road on which they drove had obviously been laid out originally for the coal mines that were dug into this ridge. He counted over a half dozen of them, all of which were currently boarded up. The very nature of this work caused a perpetual sifting of black dust to settle on the rock and snow here. But, in a way, this shroud seemed to fit well with the stark, treeless ridge that they continued to climb.

  A switchback finally led to the summit of this ridge, and Kromer set his eyes on the A-frame cottage that he had seen from the boat. This structure looked much larger from this vantage point, and as the Rover pulled up in front of it, he saw that it had been built out of whole tree trunks. A trace of smoke curled from its stone chimney, while a massive rack of antlers was mounted above the door mantle.

  Hans Kurtz put the vehicle into neutral, and without turning off the ignition, turned to address his passenger.

  “Well, good luck, Captain. I’m certain that you’ll find the Director as full of life and feisty as ever. He’s really something for a man in his seventies.”

  “You’re not coming in with me, Hans?”

  “This audience is all yours, Captain. We’ll be together again soon enough — and then we can really talk about the old days.”

  A bit confused by the arrangements, Kromer questioned, “But where are our facilities, Hans? I thought that the meeting was to take place there.”

  A devilish gleam flashed in Kurtz’s eyes, and his answer was evasive.

  “You’ll be seeing what this whole operation is about in good time, Captain.

  Now, you don’t want to keep the Director waiting for you, do you?”

  Kromer realized that he wasn’t going to be getting any answers from this end. Anxious to learn exactly what was going on here, he left the Rover and walked up to the entrance of the cottage. The door was fashioned from a huge slab of highly polished wood, and had an iron knocker in the shape of a wolfs head. Kromer rapped three times, and didn’t have to wait long until it swung open, revealing a shapely blond woman in a white servant’s uniform.

  “Good morning, Herr Kromer,” she said in perfect German.

  “We’ve been expecting you.” Smiling, she beckoned him to enter.

  From the moment he stepped inside the foyer, it seemed as if he were magically transported back to the Bavarian foothills of his birth. Panelled completely in polished oak, the hallway was crowded with familiar bric-a-brac that included an authentic German cuckoo clock, a rack of stag horns, and an assortment of beautifully framed photographs of various alpine scenes. Several exquisite Dresden plates were also hung there, along with a collection of hand-carved walking sticks. The stirring strains of a Prussian calvary march could be heard in the background.

  Kromer readily followed the young woman further into the cottage’s interior.

  The room that he next entered was breathtaking.

  A solid wall of glass allowed a magnificent view of the sparkling waters of the fjord. Glacier capped mountains could be seen in the distance, glistening beneath the rays of the rising sun. Two high-backed leather chairs sat in the middle of the carpeted room, turned so that they could take full advantage of the spectacular vista. Beside these chairs was a bronze telescope on a tripod. A stone fireplace with a blazing fire dominated one end of the room, and a well-stocked library stood on the opposite side.

  The Prussian calvary music that he had heard came from four elevated speakers, strategically mounted in each of the room’s corners. Kromer recognized the piece as the Fehrbellin calvary march.

  Certainly never expecting to hear such inspiring music in this isolated location, he handed the young servant his jacket and gloves. As she left the room, he took a position beside the fireplace. With his gaze still riveted on the extraordinary view, he wondered when his host would join him. Thus, he was taken completely by surprise when one of the high155 backed chairs began to turn. Seated here all the time, with his line of sight also turned to the fjord and the mountains beyond, was the so-called Director of the Rio de la Plata coal company’s North Cape operation: Herr Otto Koch.

  The bald septuagenerian faced his newly arrived guest and slowly stood. There was genuine delight in the old man’s wrinkled face as he removed his monocle and straightened his black ascot and red velvet smoking jacket.

  “Captain Kromer, how very good it is to see you once again. Welcome to my humble abode here on the top of the world. I do hope that your trip was a smooth one.”

  “It was well worth the effort, just to see your face once more, Herr Koch,” returned Kromer as he stepped forward to take his host’s firm, warm handshake.

  As the two embraced, they were joined by a fully grown, black German shepherd. The dog seemed jealous of the attention that his master was displaying toward this stranger, and did his best to get between them.

  “Come now, Beowulf,” admonished Koch.

  “I imagine that you too would like to meet my good friend, Charles Kromer.”

  As the dog obediently sat, Kromer bent down to greet it.

  “Hello, Beowulf” The German shepherd instantly offered its paw, which Kromer took in his hand and li
ghtly shook.

  “It’s a pleasure meeting you too, Beowulf,” mocked Kromer.

  “How very unusual. He seems to genuinely like you,” observed Otto Koch.

  “And don’t think that Beowulf offers his paw to just anyone. On the contrary. That dog’s been with me for over a decade, and I can count on one hand the number of strangers he’s taken to so readily.”

  While playfully scratching the shepherd’s ears, Kromer replied.

  “I once had a dog much like Beowulf, when I was a lad growing up in Munich.

  I called him Fritz, and we were the best of friends.

  What wonderful hikes in the woods we had together.”

  “There’s nothing like a good German shepherd if you want a loyal companion,” said Koch.

  “Old Beowulf first came to me as a pup, when I was living in Paraguay. He seemed to love the South American jungle, though this cold weather seems to suit him much better. The only trouble is that now he has no more jungle creatures to play with.”

  “I don’t suppose that polar bears make very good playmates,” returned Kromer.

  His host grinned.

  “No they don’t, Captain. Now please have a seat. Perhaps you’ll be so good as to join me for some tea.”

  Without waiting for a response, Koch clapped his hands two times and called out lightly, “Lottie, we’ll have our tea now.”

  By the time the two were settled in their chairs, the serving girl appeared pushing a silver cart, which she positioned between them. The cart was filled with assorted pastries and finger sandwiches.

  “I do hope that you had some of that delicious black forest ham left, Lottie,” anticipated Koch.

  “There was just enough for two sandwiches, sir,” returned the servant politely.

  “I also included several filled with smoked Arctic char, norwegian salmon, and of course, your favorite braunschweiger. The tea is jasmine, and there’s some peppermint schnapps on the lower shelf.”

  “Wonderful, Lottie,” said Koch.

  “It seems you’ve managed to once again make do in this frozen wilderness just as if you were back home in Stuttgart.