by Stephen Ward
THE LAST WOLF
Ride low and fast, unseen are we
Stalk well our prey through night or day
The Wolf will have her say
May her fish sail true
Through darkened blue
For vengeance or for gain
With pride she strides
Hold fast, dear mates
Your name will sing in song
If all should fail
All will hail
Those all, still on patrol
Those all, still on patrol
Foreword
Since mankind first began exploring the seas, during the days of rope and sail, mariners have exchanged tales of mystery, wonder and woe. Some told of falling from the edge of the World if they ventured too far, others told of sea serpents and sirens wailing to steal their eternal souls for Davy Jones. Ghost ships manned by the souls of the dead, destined to wander the seas never to reach their destination.
The ocean's might, power and her majesty will always mystify and intrigue the human mind. We shall never truly understand her secrets. All we can do is respect and thank her for the bounty she provides. In exchange for her gifts of life, she has claimed many victims, for spread across her depths lie the dark forgotten relics of wood and steel reminding us that her might is very strong. Most lie cold and motionless but there is one that is not so lifeless and far from helpless.
The question is – why?
1985
Today marks forty years since the passing of a man who made me who I am today. He was a genius, a family man and my friend. Some say that genius drives you to the point of fanaticism in one's work. In the beginning, nothing drove him more than ending the bloodshed of a senseless war but sadly his work would be used and the result prolonged hostilities beyond even man's appetite for war.
Wherever you are, my friend, I hope your soul is finally at peace, with the ones you loved and could not live without.
Nikolaus Huber USc
Chapter 1
LORIENT 1985
A shrill bleep came from the small alarm clock on the shelf, flashing 5:O5 am. Commander James Forrester groaned as he sat up in his bunk smoothing down his untidy hair. It had been a rough night, partly because of the heat but mainly because he knew what lay ahead of him. Reaching over to silence the now piercing alarm, what a time he thought to himself. He was going to need saving soon enough. There were three hours before his meeting with Captain Wilkes and Admiral Turnbull. Standing up he promptly cracked his head on the beam above him. “For fuck's sake, I'd better get this promotion even if it's just for the sake of new quarters. This old tub needs scrapping”.
James Forrester had been the first officer on HMS Talisman for a little over seven years. Talisman was a county class destroyer, one of the old guard, small, under-powered and always in some need of repair. Her steam turbines were temperamental and her prop shafts made her stern shake at anything over twenty knots. Maybe it was worn shaft bearings, but the engineering crew believed her back was bent after an accident during the sixties that couldn't be repaired.
Forrester was a thirty five year old family man, top of his class at the Royal Naval College at Greenwich. He was father of three, two girls, Emily, his eldest aged eight, and Molly, aged six, and a new baby boy, Max, all at home with his wife, Emma. Three months, had it really been so long since he'd seen them last? He looked up smiling at his family in the photograph which sat on the shelf next to the alarm clock that was still reminding him of how early it was! Everyday away seemed longer and longer. Would the children know him when he returned home? “Man up, Forrester,” he thought, as he splashed cold water on his face from the grubby tap.
Time for a run. Twenty minutes later, he emerged in his exercise kit, hair done, looking the very model of an officer. After setting his watch he started off down the corridor heading for the deck. Half jogging, he reached the hatch, opened it and paused for a moment stepping out into the bright morning sun over Lorient harbour. The ship had been here for three weeks awaiting the start of an exercise between the British and the French. What a wonderful day. Not a cloud in the sky. At any other time he would be happily soaking up the French air but this day was no normal day. Today was his promotion interview. Initially he had risen through the ranks faster than any other candidate in his year, but had stalled. Three times he'd been passed over for his own ship. Top of his class, perfect in every aspect, yet most of his contemporaries had commands by now. This time, he wasn't leaving that office without it.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of hurried footsteps behind him and a voice, “Hey man, hold up.” It was Paul Moorhouse, ship's doctor and the closest friend he had, the only thing on board this rusty old tub that kept him sane.
“So, today's the big day, eh? Ready to go rip old Wilkes a new one?” he said with a large friendly smirk from his slightly non-regulation facial hair. Moorhouse, a bear of a guy who had a way of making anyone smile, loved his drink and was someone you always wanted in your corner.
“It's at zero eight hundred hours and I'm shitting a brick.”
“Just relax honey! Make sure you shower, shave and do your teeth and old man Wilkes will love you as much as we all don't,” and with that Moorhouse grinned, turned and headed back towards the Medical Bay.
Smiling at this exchange, Forrester turned the corner and headed towards the Mess, having just long enough to grab some breakfast. After eating what he could only assume was an egg and something else that he was pretty sure Moorhouse would have to do an autopsy on to identify which living creature, if any, it had once been, he felt surprisingly upbeat.
Returning to his room, he sat on the edge of his bunk staring at his dress uniform fully pressed with his hat perched nearby. “You're ready! You can do this. Just go in and show Wilkes and Bully that you are worthy of a new command.” Jumping up he started getting ready, shaving for a second time and re-combing his slightly silvering hair. He wished he'd been to the ship's barber, but then, he only knew two styles, off and not so much off. Trying not to use too much aftershave, he selected the best for today's occasion. With a final flick of his hairbrush, he was ready.
Just then there was a knock at his door, “Yes, who is it?” he replied bluntly.
“Room service, Mr. Forrester,” came a high-pitched voice. “You ordered an alarm call.”
Forrester opened the door puzzled to find Moorhouse. “Ooooh! Don't you look pretty? If I didn't love Emma and my god daughters so much, I'd steal you for myself.”
Forrester couldn't help but chuckle, “Haven't you got sick people to care for or something?”
“Me? No, I gave them all a strong sedative. That should give me enough time to go grab a coffee and maybe a game of cards. After all, I have to give the engineering lot a chance to win some money back.” Sometimes, Forrester wondered if Moorhouse really was joking.
“Come on, get a move on.. Those two don't like each other at the best of times, so let's limit how long they have to tolerate each other's company. You want them in a good mood.”
Forrester closed and locked his door. “I'm going. I'm going,” he smiled. Then chuckling to himself, he headed off towards Captain Wilkes' office. As he walked slowly to the meeting, he decided to take the long way round and catch the air on deck. His eyes were drawn to the other vessels sitting quietly nearby, shiny and impressive, the morning sun reflecting off their smart grey hull, ensigns billowing in the breeze. They couldn't be more different from Talisman, as for a start, they didn't show any rust. Her Majesty's Royal Navy was a shadow of her former self or at least as far as he could see.
A sudden quiet chirp broke his reverie. It was his watch alarm signalling ten minutes until his interview. With a slap of the rail, he stood straight and smo
othed down his uniform for the tenth time since he'd put it on, and headed off below deck. Sailors moved with brisk efficiency doing their everyday tasks, stopping to salute as he passed by. He sometimes got the feeling that the men did so out of duty instead of respect. Although they'd been in harbour at ease time, discipline still had to be maintained. Either way, it suited him. Forrester's temperament was for the most part, quiet and self-contained. However, there had been a time when he had been a little too mouthy with four squaddies in Plymouth, and he'd had to run back to the ship instead of facing them. Not exactly officer—like behaviour. That's why he'd gone back to face the music. It had been a long tender ride back from the boat, knowing he had to face four guys on his own, but better that than running into them next time they docked. It was a memorable occasion. Not so much for the fight that ensued, but because Moorhouse, impressed by what he was doing, had accompanied him on the journey back to Plymouth. As the doctor repeated every time he told the story, “Just in case those poor squaddies needed any help.” It had also been a defining moment for both their careers and friendship because three months later Captain Turnbull, as he had been at the time, had requested they were posted to Talisman. Of course, the crew had never seen any of that behaviour. All they saw was his work face, cool, calm and collected. He did, sometimes, quietly envy the easy relationship that the other officers had with the men, laughs and jokes on their off time, but he found it difficult to step out of his work persona when he wasn't at home with his girls.
He was looking forward to his shore leave. It was the small things which got to him. The long tours, not being able to play with the girls and teaching them to ride the bikes he had bought for them at Christmas, and now to cuddle or feed the baby. Even the thought of hearing their voices over the phone made him emotional. He spoke to them every night via the ship's telephone but it just wasn't the same. That left Emma. They'd only been married a short time, but she understood what it meant to be a navy wife. The extra wage was going to set them up in that new house she wanted and he was going to be able to give her the green light to make the down payment. This time he wasn't going to take no for an answer. Forrester rounded the final corner. Five minutes, perfect timing. With a deep breath, he removed his hat from under his arm, placed it on his head, smoothed down his uniform for the eleventh time, reached up and knocked on the rather shabby door.
Chapter 2
LORIENT 1944
A sharp jangle of bells rudely interrupted the steady tick from a small brass alarm clock sitting on the bedside table. The noise seemed to bounce off the walls of Wolfgang Keller's tiny living quarters. A succession of coughs and snorts emanated from beneath a rough woollen blanket under which a tall wiry shape lay. Keller reached out his arm to silence the clock with a reassuring click as his hand hit the button. More coughs as he sat up staring at the hands of the clock, 05:O5, what a time!
Outside, he could already hear the sounds of people going about their business. So many noises, they all merged into one single cacophony which were quite impossible to distinguish between. He couldn't move for a few seconds because he was so cold. His simple quarters were Spartan to say the least, measuring three metres by three metres. It was dark with one very small window, tiny washbasin, desk, wardrobe and his bed. Bracing himself, he slid his legs over the side of the creaking iron-framed bed and slipped his cold feet into a waiting pair of slippers. He stood up, almost at the same time his hands instinctively reaching for his cigarettes which were by the side of a book of matches. With a smooth, practised move, he slipped one out of the packet and a strong smell of tobacco filled the room as he struck the match and lit the waiting cigarette hanging from his bottom lip. Inhaling deeply, the soft red glow from the tip cast an almost warm glow on the light coloured, dirt stained walls. Struggling to see, he shuffled forward and stubbed his toe on the bed frame. “Shit! Every fucking morning!” With his toe still throbbing, he flicked the switch filling the tiny room with a dull yellow light surrounded by a faint halo of smoke. Making his way to the china washbasin Keller poured water in from a jug. Placing his cigarette over the edge of the washbasin, he looked into the small mirror and stared at his reflection. Keller was thirty five but at this point felt so much older, his dark silvering hair seemed to catch the light and glisten with a flash as he moved his head. A head that was heavy and with eyes still full of sleep. He cupped his hands splashing water which instantly roused him with its chilled temperature.
Just then, a siren sounded, drowning all other noise. Walking over to the window, he pulled aside the damp curtain which also served as a blackout. He exposed the small, grubby, tape-crossed window panes and gazed through one. Outside was Lorient harbour, a vast sprawling Navy yard, a far cry from its fishing village origins. Men bustled quickly from right to left, vehicles moved around loudly accompanied with nasty clouds of exhaust smoke and in the distance he could hear the sounds of industry.
Turning and picking up his pace, he moved over the cold wooden floor back to the basin and started to shave quickly. The cut-throat razor that his wife, Sabine, had bought him glinted as he carefully but swiftly began to remove the shaving lather from his face. Always such a good shave, he thought. Sabine always did know how to buy a good anniversary present. Pausing for a moment, he looked over to the bedside cabinet at the oval-shaped photograph of a pretty red-headed woman with an auburn-haired baby. “Ah!” he thought, “My dear Sabine and my little Petra.” It had been three months since he had last seen them and it felt such a long time. Things had been so different when he worked in the shipyard at St. Nazaire. He hadn't had to stay in a small cesspit of a room. He could be at home near Quimper with good meals and his beloved wife and daughter. Sabine had never liked their home in Hamburg much, so they had moved to France during peacetime, so as to be close to his other passion. He loved his job designing liners, but this bloody war had destroyed everything. Never mind, he had leave saved and was going to spend Petra's second birthday at home. May 5th, he could wait that long, it was only six months away.
Keller had been working flat out on these new boat designs and they were nearly complete. Today, he was going to get the plans signed off by his superiors. Herr Weib would be so happy. Nothing will stop these boats. This submarine will ensure victory for Germany and end this war.
Wiping his face and hands he moved to the end of the bed and put on his clothes. Just as he was straightening his suspenders, a loud knock made the door shake. “Herr Keller!” came a voice in a rather hurried tone, “Herr Keller. You're late. Everyone is waiting for you.”
Keller had been late three times this week already. Maybe it was because of the clanging hammering noise at night or because of his lack of sleep, but either way, it all amounted to the same. Pulling on his jacket and lighting another cigarette, he turned towards the door, but not before he had kissed two fingers and pressed them onto his photograph as he passed. The cool early morning air rushed in and the sunlight outside blinded him temporarily. Surprised at just how bright it was, Keller smiled to himself and thought, “My word. Just how dirty are those windows?”
A young man dressed rather scruffily in a brown suit and slightly grey, once white shirt sat on a wall nearby. It was Nikolaus Huber, Keller's apprentice draughtsman. One of the best he had ever had, a nice boy, but with a tendency to get over-excited and make mistakes. Not at all like Keller whose attention to detail and cool persona had sometimes made him appear cold to others, but for now that suited him. He had only one thing on his mind – get this design signed off and get back home. It was at times like this that Keller was glad he was a contractor and thus immune from being called up. Due to his profession as a naval architect, he was far too important to be drafted off to some hellish war zone, though sometimes this felt just the same, being away from his family and surrounded by people he didn't respect or even like – an opinion, he reminded himself, best kept to himself. It wasn't a good idea to voice one's opinions too much around here. Those who did, had a tendency to
disappear, either reassigned to somewhere not quite as hospitable or even worse. Well, it wasn't going to happen to him.
He hadn't always felt so ill at ease. When he'd first arrived at the yard some three months earlier, the superintendent had been a pleasant gentlemen who'd cared solely about the quality of the ships he built and the safety of his workers at the sacrifice of speed. However, the relentless march of the Nazi war machine meant that they needed ships and lots of them. For some reason, the Allies were sinking more and more every week, so the demand forced a letter from Hitler, himself ordering the running of the yard to be overseen by an SS officer known only as Richter. The latter's inexorable pushing and threats had made mistakes commonplace and Keller was very glad that he didn't have to deal with him too often.
Today was different. He had a meeting at 8:00 am with Herr Weib, Richter and his staff in order to show his latest design – the fastest, well-armed and technically advanced submarine ever designed. Keller smiled a half grin at Nikolaus, “Thank you for the wake up call, but did I ask for one?”
“No but if Richter had got wind of you being late, it would have meant him watching the drafts room a lot closer.
Deep down, Keller knew he was right, so with a simple gesture, they headed off towards the main building. Raising his arm, Keller checked the time, a little after 6am. “Should we check the yard before we go in?” asked Nikolaus.
Keller paused and looked up, “Yes, perhaps we should.” so walking briskly, they headed off through the many narrow slipways, jetties and towers of scaffolding, noting every mass of plate steel, cold and lifeless, slowly crawling their way higher and higher into the sky. Riveting teams tossed red hot rivets from person to person, like children playing catch; cranes swung huge sheets overhead and the sound of a thousand hammers striking in unison merged together making a repetitive thud like a heartbeat. Snippets of shouted conversations assailed their ears as they passed by. Workers raised their caps respectfully as they moved on and walking through the yard towards the Fitting basins. Keller stopped briefly to check the quality of some of the rivets done the previous day finding their heads squashed unevenly. With a look of displeasure, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a little notebook and worn-down pencil stub. With a quick scribble, he made some small notes before continuing on. “Nikolaus, the yard is at least two weeks behind schedule with those three hulls, and the quality of those rivets is shocking. At this rate, the British won't need to sink us, the ships won't even get out of port. Rushing will only make tonnage look good.”