Out of Mecklenburg

by James Remmer

  The welcome change in the weather brought further conjecture. Some thought they were making for South Africa; others, Chile; while the jokers insisted that they were heading for a remote island in the South Pacific, a palm-clad hut and a hula-hula girl for each man.

  Down in the galley, the cook’s excitement was mounting. If the doctor’s predictions were right, the very next day, Franz Rouff would be a father for the third time. A young torpedo mechanic from Dresden did a hurried mock calculation on his fingers, devilishly inquiring how on earth it could be, when, for the whole of last June and July, the crew had been at the Blom and Voss yard at Hamburg, while Frau Rouff had been at Stuttgart.

  The stocky Rouff, weighing half the size of a Friesian bull, picked up a frying pan and held it close to the young man’s nose. ‘You might have been at Hamburg, sonny, but I was at Stuttgart,’ he growled.

  In the wardroom, Janssen was laying the foundations for the next weekly news-sheet as Mohle and Krauz, the giants of the chessboard, prepared to do battle in the first semi-final of the chess championship.

  When Lanze appeared on the bridge, Reidel, smitten by the eminence of Sirius, was singing to himself.

  ‘What was that, Horst?’ asked Lanze, a puzzled look on his face.

  ‘Oh, just doing my Richard Tauber bit…’

  Lanze raised an eyebrow.

  ‘You know, “A tropical moon, a sleepy lagoon”?’

  ‘Sorry, Horst, you know me, couldn’t tell the difference between Strauss and a set of church bells. My wife would gladly confirm that.’

  At that, Schulz poked his head and shoulders above the hatch, stretched out his arm and tugged at the hem of Reidel’s trousers. Reidel turned and Schulz, his face full of silent futility, flicked his head, beckoning the officer below.

  Looking like the grim reaper himself, Schulz handed Reidel a half-flimsy, Reidel’s eyes falling on the short, heart-wrenching message.

  PERSONAL: FOR KORVETTENKAPITÄN LANZE.

  REGRETS. WIFE AND PARENTS-IN-LAW KILLED IN AIR RAID, MONDAY 26TH. DEEPEST CONDOLENCES.

  DÖNITZ.

  Reidel propped himself up against the periscope housing and read the message again.

  ‘Dear God.’

  ‘I thought it only right to inform you first, sir.’

  Reidel took a long, deep breath and sighed heavily. ‘You were right to do that, Manfred. Thank you.’

  As soon as Schulz had gone, Reidel ushered a short message to the bridge.

  ‘Number One, sir.’

  ‘Go ahead, Horst.’

  ‘Sir, Captain Only message, in your quarters.’

  ‘I’m on my way.’

  Lanze pulled back the long green curtain and found Reidel standing beside the bunk, a silent, heart-aching look of grief on his face. The words ‘I’m deeply sorry, Jürgen,’ had scarcely left his lips when Lanze raised his hand, waved away the awkward agony and sat down. Staring longingly at the smiling photograph of Katrina sitting on his desk, he drew his hand across his face and, with a twisted look, he spoke.

  ‘How strange, Horst. For some inexplicable reason, I always knew there’d be a problem. It must have been, well, premature, I suppose.’

  Reidel looked again at the message, then sat down on the edge of the bunk. ‘Jürgen,’ he said quietly, his voice labouring, ‘I’m… I’m afraid it’s not just the baby.’

  A parched, arid feeling settled in Lanze’s throat. He tried to swallow, but he couldn’t. His body was limp and cold, a prickly, nauseating sensation in his stomach.

  ‘No, Horst, it can’t be,’ he croaked. ‘Not Katrina. I don’t…’ He shook his head. ‘It’s a mistake, it must be a mistake.’

  Reidel put an arm around Lanze’s shoulders. ‘I’m sorry, Jürgen, I’m deeply, deeply sorry, but I’m afraid it’s true. Your parents-in-law, General von Menen and his wife… they were killed, too. It was an air raid,’ he said softly.

  Eyes misting with tears, Lanze picked up the photograph of his wife and pressed it to his chest, gripping it so tight that his knuckles turned white.

  ‘If you don’t mind, Horst,’ he said, looking completely dazed, ‘I’d like to be left alone for a while.’

  ‘Of course, Jürgen. I understand.’

  Reidel placed the message reverently on the desk and left the cabin.

  Friday 2nd March 1945

  Von Menen returned to the cottage, taking with him twelve cases of wine, half a dozen bottles of cognac, several cartons of cigarettes and four boxes of cigars, which he stored at the hut alongside Margarita.

  A little after midnight, he began decoding the latest signal from Berlin. At first, it seemed routinely concise – OK POLARIS ETA 10 MARCH – but the dots and the dashes kept coming.

  Unlike Jürgen, there was no one to soften the impact, understand the emotions or extend the much-needed comfort of sympathy. Instead, von Menen was about to become his own private messenger, the unwitting self-harbinger of grief and horror.

  He had already deciphered the words “Mother”, “Father” and “Sister”, but not until he’d reached the first syllable of the word “killed” did the ice-cold feeling of fear and panic race down his spine. The morbid horror of war had finally reached its way into Carl von Menen’s life. In one harsh, cruel moment, the spectre of Germany had come back to haunt him. The von Menen dream was in ruins.

  Devastated, confused and lonely, he sat down on his bed and cried unashamedly.

  At first light, totally dispirited, von Menen boarded Margarita and headed for the tranquillity of the open sea.

  That evening, he called Maria from the local hotel and told her he would not be back for at least ten days. Hiding the existence of the transceiver, he said nothing about the disastrous news from Germany. She sensed that something was wrong, but she did not ask what.

  Von Menen sank beneath a blanket of deep depression, Maria a hazy image. All he could see now was a recurrent vision of the three people who had meant so much in his life, surpassed occasionally by the consoling notion of Jürgen’s imminent arrival, the hope of mutual solace and the answer to a question that was piling agonising uncertainty upon crushing grief – had Hans and Greta Steiger survived?

  As the days passed, von Menen emerged slowly from his shell of sorrow and heartache, and began focusing on the matter of his rendezvous with Andromeda.

  He drove into town and refilled Margarita’s three spare fuel cans. If Rivera’s advice was right, it would, he hoped, be enough to cover the round trip to the rendezvous point.

  *

  Friday 9th March 1945

  Jürgen Lanze was slowly coming to terms with the reality of what had been the most devastating news he had received in his entire life. Though it was heartrendingly difficult, he was beginning to think like a commanding officer again.

  Reidel, who had shouldered much of the responsibility for the running of the boat, had shown unswerving loyalty and support, as had the rest of the crew.

  Thanks to Krauz’s reckoning, Andromeda was bang on schedule. At seven o’clock on Friday evening, Lanze sent another signal to U-boat headquarters – ANDROMEDA ETA AKROBAT 21h00 LOCAL 10 MARCH.

  Following a westerly course, with just 112 nautical miles to go, Lanze trimmed the boat for snorkel depth and began the final run to the rendezvous point. Von Menen received the relayed signal from the Foreign Office a little after midnight.

  Saturday 10th March 1945

  At three o’clock in the morning, Andromeda, now running on her electric motors, crossed the 100-metre contour. Seven hours later, the first note of warning echoed through the control room.

  ‘Less than thirty metres beneath the keel, Captain.’

  Lanze flicked a glance at his Number One. ‘In a few hours, Horst,’ he said calmly, ‘there’ll be a lot less than thirty metres under the keel.’
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  To the west, Margarita was clear of the coast and less than three hours from the rendezvous point, intermittent flashes from the Cabo San Antonio Lighthouse growing steadily dimmer.

  On board the submarine, the depth of water was decreasing rapidly.

  ‘You have fifteen metres beneath the keel, Captain!’ called Janssen.

  Moments later, the readings came thick and fast.

  ‘Twelve metres, Captain… ten… eight metres, Captain.’

  Unconcerned by Janssen’s uneasy expression, Reidel shrugged as the boat maintained a cautious six knots, a constant eight metres beneath the keel. Lanze was savouring the thought of the last twenty miles when Janssen yelled out.

  ‘Five metres beneath the keel, Captain!’

  Reidel moved across the control room, stood behind the operator, eyes glued to the needle on the fathometer.

  ‘Four metres, Captain… three… two…!’

  Janssen looked anxiously at Mohle, then glanced quickly at Reidel, a mild tremor passing through the deck plating. Andromeda had “kissed” the bottom and was skimming along the ocean floor.

  A minute later, a note of optimism from Janssen.

  ‘Two metres beneath the keel, Captain.’

  Lanze turned to Meyer and caught the look of relief on his face, both smiling as the next two readings were shouted out.

  ‘Four metres, Captain… five metres. You still have five metres, Captain.’

  Lanze checked his watch. Nine o’clock. A smile rippled across his face.

  ‘Both engines, stop! Up periscope!’ he shouted.

  The hydraulics whined. Lanze stood back, removed his cap and wiped the perspiration from his brow and neck. Replacing his cap, the peak hanging over his collar, he peered through the scope, the horizon empty. Then, as he swept over the starboard bow a second time, he froze, a small vessel less than a thousand metres ahead.

  ‘New course: two-nine-zero… slow ahead!’ he called.

  Soon, the vessel was less than 500 metres away, sitting in mirror-smooth seas beneath a sickle moon, pennants of white, black and white limp on the masthead.

  It has to be Carl.

  Through the darkness, von Menen couldn’t see the gentle wake from Andromeda’s periscope, nor could he hear her silent electric motors as she moved closer to his position.

  A smile fed into Lanze’s eyes. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘we have reached our final position.’ He stepped back from the scope. ‘Stop motors!’ he shouted. ‘SURFACE!’

  Manfred Schulz winked at the chief diesel mechanic and held out his hand. ‘Bruno, you owe me fifty Reichsmarks.’

  ‘Boat is rising, Captain… bridge is clear… hatch is free, sir.’

  ‘Take charge, Number One,’ said Lanze, before turning to Schulz. ‘Telegraphist!’

  ‘Captain?’

  ‘With me… and bring the Aldis.’

  Lanze, with Schulz close behind, scurried up the ladder and rushed through the conning tower, water spilling off his shirt as he scrambled onto the bridge.

  Aboard Margarita, von Menen could scarcely believe his eyes. After cruising over 7,800 nautical miles, Andromeda was just a whisker away.

  ‘Signal that vessel, Schulz:“IDENTIFY YOURSELF”.’

  Schulz flashed off the message, the Aldis lamp blinking merrily. Von Menen responded. Perplexed, Schulz handing the reply to Lanze.

  ‘Can’t make any sense of it, Captain… Must be ciphered.’

  Lanze hastened to his cabin and decoded the message: AKROBAT. Immediately, he called the control room.

  ‘Number One?’

  ‘Captain?’

  ‘The vessel is friendly, I repeat, the vessel is friendly…Muster gun crews! Six men and two light machine guns on the aft’ casing. Number Two…’ – Meyer’s ears pricked in a flash – ‘prepare to launch the inflatable. Have six men stand by on the for’ard casing, six below the torpedo loading hatch.’

  A moment later: ‘Captain!’ cried Meyer. ‘A man has just left the wheelhouse… he’s on deck… I see him through the glasses… He looks bewildered.’

  ‘He’s alone?’

  ‘Seems so, Captain. Can’t see anyone else.’

  Lanze hurried back to the tower, brought up the heavy 12x50 Zeiss binoculars and noted the stunned look on von Menen’s face.

  ‘Schulz,’ he chuckled, ‘send the message, “THIS IS ANDROMEDA”.’

  Von Menen flashed back: ALLELUIA.

  Aboard Margarita, von Menen was engulfed by a huge dilemma: the sudden realisation that Jürgen might, perchance, be unaware of the catastrophic news from Germany. He watched apprehensively as the small inflatable drew nearer and bumped alongside Margarita. Von Menen caught the line, Lanze scrambling aboard without a word.

  The two men stood and looked at each other, their faces telling the same, worn picture of grief and pain. Von Menen’s dilemma lifted. Jürgen knew, all right.

  ‘God, it’s good to see you, Jürgen. I’d like to give you a big hug, but I suspect that at least two 12x50s are pointing in this direction, right?’

  ‘Right. The important thing is, Carl, we know how each of us feels.’

  They shook hands and sat down on a wooden case, just forward of the wheelhouse.

  ‘When did you find out?’ asked von Menen.

  ‘A week ago, last Wednesday. You?’

  ‘Two days later… I still can’t believe it.’

  ‘Neither can I.’

  ‘Apart from everything else, I can’t stop thinking about the Steigers… I mean, were they all together or not?’

  ‘When I left the house, Hans told me that he and Greta would be leaving for Flensburg on the last Sunday in February.’

  ‘Meaning that Katrina would be following later, with Mother and Father?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Lanze, with a pained expression, ‘after Katrina’s birthday.’

  ‘Damn, Jürgen, it’s so hard to accept.’

  Lanze looked up at the night sky. ‘It’s the war, Carl, the lousy, stinking war,’ he said in a melancholy voice. ‘In every home, in every town in Germany, there’s sadness of one form or another.’

  ‘And for what?’ said von Menen.

  ‘For nothing,’ replied Lanze contemptuously. ‘It’s all been for nothing.’

  Haunted by the same agonising thoughts, they sat in quiet contemplation until von Menen asked, ‘Any news of Manfred?’

  ‘Nothing. The news from the Baltic is dreadful. Before I left, your father, well, he didn’t think Manfred would ever be seen again.’

  ‘God, what a damn mess.’

  ‘Have you said anything to Maria?’

  ‘No… If I did, she’d know about the radio and I’ve no intention of compromising her. Besides, there’d be a lot of awkward questions and right now I could well do without that.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right. How did she take to your sudden reappearance?’

  ‘With great difficulty at first, but she’s okay now.’ Von Menen buried his head in his hands, rubbed his eyes and then looked up at the sky. ‘I have another big problem,’ he said. ‘Insignificant compared to all else, but a problem, nevertheless.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘My contact is dead. Allegedly killed in a car accident, but if you ask me, he’s more likely to have been murdered.’

  The revelation seemed lost on Lanze, who had another wave rolling through his mind: the carefree, girlish image of Katrina, running across the courtyard to welcome him home.

  ‘Jürgen?’ prompted von Menen, craning his neck. ‘Did you catch what I said?’

  ‘Oh, yes, Carl, I caught it, all right, but it no longer has any relevance to me. I couldn’t care less if your contact was standing on the moon with Mussolini, the Emperor of
Japan and Hitler himself. I knew something was wrong when I saw this.’ He gestured around the deck. ‘It’s about the slowest-looking patrol boat I’ve ever seen.’

  ‘Yes, but somehow I’ve got to get rid of a few tonnes of arms and ammunition. We can’t just dump it over the side in front of the whole crew. That would pose all sorts of questions, especially when you’re…’ von Menen halted. ‘You are going back, aren’t you?’

  Lanze nodded towards Andromeda. ‘I have a full complement of officers and crew over there, Carl, and like me many of them have lost virtually everything. Doubtless some would jump at the chance of internment in Argentina, but there are others with wives and children, sweethearts and relatives in Germany. It’s my responsibility to see that they get back there.’

  ‘I thought so, which is why I think you’ll agree to my idea.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘The signals I send to Germany… they contain a duress code, meaning that if my circumstances change…’

  ‘You mean, if you get caught and you’re forced into sending a signal…?’

  ‘I simply leave out the code. That way, the home station will know immediately that something is wrong. At my last briefing, my boss stressed that the safety of the U-boat was paramount… so when I leave here, ostensibly with some of the consignment, anything could happen. I could send a duress signal tomorrow night.’

  ‘In which case, they’d withdraw me immediately, with most of the munitions still on board,’ figured Lanze.

  ‘Exactly. That would relieve you of any awkward questions when you get back.’

  ‘If we get back. Our fuel situation is critical. My original calculations were based on a return cruise to this position only, but when I eventually opened my orders, my calculations went straight out of the window.’

  ‘How do you mean?’