The Last Wolf

by Stephen Ward

  “Show yourself. If you're real you'll show yourself and face me.”

  The speaker continued to hiss but apart from the sound of water droplets there was only silence.

  Now Forrester resumed his exploration, walking around the room searching for a means of getting lower, hunting with increasing desperation for any sign of a hatch or ladder. He moved slowly towards a hatch that seemed to separate the galley from another compartment. The red light cast strange shadows on the bulk heads as he passed through into what seemed to be a junction, only to be confronted by two toilets with moulded wooden seats and a terrible smell of damp which he had absolutely no interest in.

  He'd had enough, it was down or nothing. Stooping and listening he could hear the drone of machinery somewhere below and it seemed louder here. Shining the torch around the darker corners of the compartment he soon found what he was looking for. Another access hatch to the lower levels, its cover stuck half open. It would be a squeeze but he'd just be able to fit through.

  Despite pushing with all his might the cover stubbornly refused to move any further over. Half on his belly he swung his feet through the hole and felt for rungs below. As he found one and began to descend, the hiss resumed, louder now.

  “Where are you going, Forrester?”

  “Not again,” he thought. “Pay no attention. It's only your imagination.” so ignoring the voice he continued to squeeze himself through the small gap. The hiss stopped, lights dimmed and there at once in front of him stood the figure regarding him silently. Forrester struggled awkwardly, half stuck through the hatch with his feet dangling into the unknown below.

  The lights became brighter once more and the figure was gone but instead the voice returned, harsher this time. “Where are you going?”

  “I'm going to get out of here and there's nothing you can do to stop me,” growled Forrester still squeezing himself through the gap which seemed to be getting tighter against his chest.

  The hiss was replaced by a laugh and the hatch began to close against Forrester's chest, the metal lid gradually compressing so he couldn't breathe.

  “You see, I can stop you. Haven’t you realised it yet? The sea didn't make the hatch close, I did. I also brought you down here.”

  “That's impossible!” gasped Forrester. “You're a figment of my imagination brought about by stress or gas.” Trying to wriggle free, he found he was still unable to move.

  “Do you think that a figment of your imagination could do this?” and the hatch began, once again, to tighten its grip on him. As it did so the figure loomed over him again with no warning, as before. This time the lights stayed constant. But the hatch pressure eased a little. Staring up in terror he took his chance and pushed down hard off the floor. His body slipped through and his arms cleared the hatch with nothing to spare as it slammed hard shut above him. He had escaped from the figure for now but it was quickly dawning on him that this was no hallucination. But how this was possible? What was it? Was he a ghost or a poltergeist? Whatever or whoever he was it was clear that it and the boat were connected somehow. His Grandfather had often told him stories of souls lost at sea roaming the depths on ghost ships but this was clearly different. He was here and this boat was real. Both he and Moorhouse had seen it. “Bloody hell,” he thought, remembering Moorhouse. The doctor would have already come back for him and found the submarine gone. Surely his friend would have reported back to Wilkes and Turnbull who would be looking for him. Knowing this his mood lightened somewhat.

  The light, in this new area, was practically non-existent so he flicked on his torch. This was totally different. He was confronted with a dark, narrow walkway made from grated steel flanked on both sides by a metal hand rail. The small beam of light cast by his torch was feeble and dim and he realised was quickly losing battery power.

  Another light was visible further down the walkway. “That's better than nothing,” he thought “Maybe I can find a power switch for the other compartments down there.” Slowly and carefully with his hands on the rail he moved towards the light, his pace and confidence increasing. Suddenly, however, as he got closer his hand fell away to nothing as the rail on one side came away and fell off down into the dark below him and bounced with a metallic clank. The shock was enough to make him curse but he was now very close to the source of the light.

  Sounds of machinery grew louder as he approached. The purr turned to a drone as he reached the doorway. He was confronted by yet another control room. On either side huge engines idled turning two large shafts. The purr came from two generators on either side. This was impossible. Not only was the boat's engine running but it was charging up. Forrester knew enough about engines to find his way round this compartment which in many respects resembled 'Talisman'. Working his way across he came to a damp and rusted control panel. It appeared that this panel had some of the same instruments that he'd seen on the bridge. A screen flickered with small lights which blinked moving that radar light again. Moving on, he found what he was looking for, a black-faced dial with the needle pulsating gently. It was rising slowly and another below it 'Voltsekunde' and 'Ampsivarii'. “Yes!” he thought. Even though he didn't speak German he was aware what that meant 'Volts' and 'Amps'. The needles were low at the moment but rising gradually. This was bad. The rational part of his mind immediately rejected this notion but what if the figure he was seeing WAS real and was somehow connected to the submarine. Everytime it appeared the lights dimmed and it couldn't appear and speak at the same time. Forrester knew that if this was the case it had managed to trap him at the hatch on low power and if the boat charged fully, he didn't want to be around to see what it could do. He had to stop those generators. Searching desperately, he spied a wrench and after examining the machinery he jammed it between the lip of the generator and the shaft but with a screech the wrench sheered off and fell to the floor.

  The hiss from the speaker above crackled. “Stop what you are doing, Forrester.”

  Ignoring the voice he looked for a larger tool and found a huge crow bar. Jamming it in the same place forced the shaft to screech and grind. Again the speaker told him to stop but Forrester pushed with all his might and rammed the bar further in. A jolt of blue struck him through the metal bar and threw him away from the machinery. As he caught his breath he saw a light come on at the far end of the submarine. Momentarily he saw the figure standing at the end of the walkway. Then the light went off. Forrester staggered to his feet and tried wedging the crow bar again, his eyes watching the darkness through the door. Another light, but closer. Again he pushed with all his might and sweat ran from his brow. The figure was half way down the catwalk and the lights dimming faster. Now it was only metres away and Forrester could see the lips still silently speaking and the dark eyes starring malevolently at him. Just as he realised that the next flash would bring it inside the compartment the bar spun round and with a loud grind and a flash of sparks the lights went out completely. Forrester caught a momentary glimpse of the figure as it appeared before him but then was gone leaving nothing behind save the smell of burning and the sound of Forrester's racing heart.

  Chapter 42

  Huber sat with his legs swinging over the edge of the dock, the dark murky water swirling below him. Behind him was a scene of carnage, still smouldering wreckage and rubble littering the dockside. All was silent save for squawking flocks of seagulls. Groups of soldiers were busy removing corpses that lay in a line under the shadow of the pens rising above them like a giant grave stone.

  Three hours had elapsed since the raid, but Huber had yet to move a muscle. He was in complete shock and couldn't believe what he'd just witnessed. His friend and mentor had thrown his life away in a pointless act and Huber knew who was to blame. It could only have been Richter who'd put the idea into Keller's head. He recollected how the officer had merely stood watching as Keller had made his way to his death without saying so much as a word, let alone trying to stop it. Huber knew he couldn't dare say anything as Richter was cle
arly a very dangerous man.

  He also felt partially responsible and kept asking himself if he should have tried harder to talk to his friend. However, he realised Keller's grief had manifested itself as hate and anger since the passing of his family and that he, himself, couldn't have done much more than he had. The question was, what was he going to do now? With Keller gone, the submarine project was now his sole responsibility, and ultimately his risk. He knew that the threats from Richter were not hollow. He didn't want to end up fighting a lost war and find himself in a trench somewhere. The project was going to be completed, not for Richter or for Germany, but for Keller, wherever he was now. Huber intended to make him proud, with a fitting legacy. So with a decisive push up with his arms, he stood and brushed off the concrete and ash stained smudges on his clothes. Even so, Huber opted not to change. Instead, he retrieved a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and straightened one out before lighting it with his last match. Blue-grey tendrils of smoke drifted off into the late afternoon sky as the deep inhalations came as a calming relief and settled his nerves somewhat.

  With renewed purpose and determination, he strode off in the direction of the pens. He now realised that a lot was riding on him and that the quicker the project was completed, the faster he could get back to other ship designs and be rid of Richter and this whole nasty business for good. Store rooms lining the corridors had been converted into triage bays where bloodied and bandaged soldiers either sat or lay on fold-up bunks while being attended to by medical staff. In the aftermath of the bombing, the masses of civilians and labourers were queuing along the walls. Huber's arrival at the bays sparked an immediate and gratifying reaction from the men as his approach saw the crews quickly scurrying back to work.

  “Please stop,” he shouted. The words echoed around the boat and soon all eyes were on him. “As some of you are aware, Wolfgang Keller was killed this morning.”

  “Killed,” came a shout. “You mean he killed himself”

  “Yeah, good riddance,” came another.

  “Didn't you see what he did?” More jeering rose until Huber lost his temper.

  “Stop this now.” he shouted loudly, his face burning with rage. “I can't condone what he did, but all of you are well aware of what happened to his wife and little daughter.”

  Another angry voice called, “What about Johannes Brunt? He had a child.”

  Huber deliberately composed himself realising this was a battle and that he needed these men on his side. He repeated, “You are right, what happened to Johannes was unforgivable. But I can't change what has happened. You still have jobs to do. Let's get this boat finished. I'll be taking over control of the project, nothing changes apart from that”

  A young man, perhaps seventeen years old, was hanging over the rail trying to look busy. Huber looked up at him curiously, “Hi, you, what's your name?”

  The boy looked down and asked in amazement, “Me, sir?”

  “Yes, you, young man. What's your name?”

  “My name is Franz Adlar, sir.”

  “I see. I don't remember seeing you before.”

  “No sir. I've come to replace Johannes.”

  Huber thought for a moment., then began again. “Do you have any experience welding, riveting, wiring?”

  Hesitantly, Adlar looked at his feet.

  “It's fine. You're not in any trouble, I just wondered what experience you have.”

  “I've never worked on anything like this before. I was sent here because I used to work for my father who was a motor automobile designer.”

  “Can you draw as your father did?” asked Huber who had had a glimmer of an idea. This boy may be just what was necessary. Now Keller was gone Huber would need his own assistant, otherwise the project would never be completed. His thoughts were interrupted by the shouts from one of the crew who was busy attaching the new snorkel tube to its mount. “Show him your pad, boy. You spent most of the last hour drawing in it instead of working!”

  Patiently Huber held out his hand for the lad's sketch pad. From out of his overalls, Adlar produced a brown book, scuffed but well-loved, the string holding the worn and frayed pages together. Gently, almost with reverence, the designer opened the front cover. The first page was labelled with the man's name, nothing more. The second page, however, made Huber gasp out loud until he managed to control himself. It was clear that Adlar had some experience as a portrait artist. The sketch showed an older man sat drawing at a desk. “Your father?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir. I did many of him.” He gestured Huber to continue turning the pages. Each paper leaf contained scribbles or half sketches of machines, cars, ships or people. After the horrors of this day, Huber had not been expecting this. He closed the cover and retied the string passing the book back to a nervous Adlar.

  “Am I in trouble, sir? It's just that I didn't mean to waste time. I just didn't have a job to do when I arrived and I draw to settle my nerves.”

  Huber smiled as the lad reminded him of himself on a first day long ago. Keller had scared him so much that he hid behind the drafts table before he finally got up the nerve to speak to his boss.

  “No, young fellow. Please come with me,” and ignoring the smirks from the yard crew, Huber led Adlar away in the direction of the stairs. Adlar scurried along behind Huber like a pupil following a teacher. As they walked quickly he was told, “Remember this route. You'll be coming here so many times per day that your boot leather will need a cobbler!” Eventually a very bewildered Adlar found himself following Huber into the drafts room.

  Pushing aside conflicting emotions, Huber began to clear Keller's belongings into a pile.

  “Excuse me, sir....”

  Packing pencils into a small wooden box he answered, “My name is Huber, Nikolaus Huber, and I am the …..” and he stopped only to begin again, “I am the senior draftsman at the Lorient pens.”

  “Sir, I mean Huber, What am I doing here?” queried Adlar.

  Huber began, “I've recently acquired this position and I'm in need of an apprentice if this project is ever to be finished. Now, I know you can sketch but the question is, can you draw?”

  A look of realisation and excitement built on young Adlar's face. “You mean, I don't have to go down and work on the crew anymore?”

  “No, but don't think for one moment that this will be easy. You've a lot to learn in a very short space of time. Tomorrow morning, you'll be here at five. The heaters need to be on as well as the kettle. I want my pencils sharp and ready.”

  Adlar nodded, trying frantically to take in all that was happening.

  Reaching into his pocket Huber retrieved a large ring of keys and passed them to the young man. “Here are the keys for this room and the store rooms. Keep them safe and the stores tidy. Everything we need is in there. These are your responsibility from now on. Oh and if you're late, you'll stay behind and make up time later, do you understand?” asked Huber in his new authoritative way.

  As Adlar voiced his agreement, Huber told him that for now his day was over and to return to his quarters to rest. “You will need good eyes tomorrow. Don't be late.”

  Adlar nodded and sped off down the corridor leaving Huber sitting at Keller's work area. He collected together the remaining drawing implements and packed them slowly into the ornate iron chest that had lain on his old friend's desk. Opening the drawers he thought about how strange it was going to be never seeing Keller again. The events of today were so unreal. What hurt him the most was that there was no one to send the box to – a whole family wiped out in less than a month. He picked up Keller's spectacles. It had been a rare sight indeed to see them worn as his friend had always furiously denied needing them, but on many a late night Huber had seen them perched on the end of Keller's nose when he thought he was alone. Perhaps it was this memory or delayed shock but Huber's eyes burned and soon the tears ran freely down his cheeks as sobbing noisily, his head lowered into hands tightly gripping the glasses.

  Cha
pter 43

  Chief stood leaning on a rail, his foot resting on one of the engine casings. He'd been on Talisman long enough to know by feel when the engines were running well. Ticking a box on a check list hanging from a bolt nearby, he shouted over to a young seaman who was sitting cross legged across the engineering space beside one of the ship’s generators.

  “Craig!”

  “Yes Chief?”

  “You'd better hurry up and finish. If I know the Admiral he'll want full power available soon and the generators have been off line for quite a while.”

  The young sailor immediately became more animated in his efforts, calling back, “The systems on this boat are a mess Chief. She should be scrapped. For every problem I fix another two start. Wouldn’t you like to be Chief on one of those new destroyers? Have you seen them? They're a real sight. Unlike this tub - it's embarrassing.”

  With slight annoyance the Chief shifted his weight to his other foot and crossed over to where the young man was now almost up to his waist inside an access panel.

  “Now you listen to me, lad. This ship might be old and have her quirks but she’s ten times the ship those new ones are. She may not be as fast or agile but she'll always get you home and don’t you forget that. She deserves a little respect.”

  “Yeah if you say so Chief but I can't see the lads I went through training with having to do the stuff I have to do. Their life must be a lot easier.” A blue light reflected from inside the panel closely followed by the clang of a dropped tool, “Fuck's sake!” Craig slid out from the access panel cradling his hand and kicked the panel in temper.

  Chief grinned to himself. He'd done that so many times himself.

  “It hates me!” exclaimed Craig, “It does. I'm sure of it.”

  “That’s because she can hear you,” replied Chief half laughing.