The Last Wolf

by Stephen Ward

  “Stop! Please stop!” screamed Forrester. “What are you doing? We're no longer at war.”

  But the firing sequence was repeated, this time on Tube II. A rush of air and the torpedo had gone. The stopwatch ticked again.

  Chapter 50

  The small convoy of ships steamed out into the open Channel. Kentucky, Aconite and Roma made good progress, Talisman with smoke belching from her stack followed. The other vessels were smaller and noticeably faster but, from a distance Talisman with her size and turrets, made an impressive sight. In comparison, the newer destroyers' single forward guns seemed feeble.

  Wilkes checked his watch and compared the time to the clock on the far wall of the bridge. Four hours. Berlin would be setting out in just under an hour from now.

  Radar barked. “Seaman, what traffic do we have on our bearing?” A young sailor glanced at a rack of plastic strips in front of him with hand written notes on each of them. He then checked the radar which swept around the black screen and illuminated any object in green.

  “I’m waiting Seaman” snapped Wilkes impatiently.

  “Sorry, sir! All our convoy is holding at 300 metres spacing on our port and starboard. A cargo ship is working its way up towards Roscoff. It passed us around an hour ago. We also have a passenger ferry that is two hours out of Portsmouth. They'll pass us two miles to starboard, sir.”

  “Very good. Once we pass the ferry, mark position and signal all ships to take up search grid positions. I want everything ready for when Berlin makes her run on Portsmouth. Communications: signal Roma to commence laying the practice mines at the pre-arranged line formations.”

  “Aye, sir.

  A call came over the loudspeaker, “All senior staff report to Admiral Turnbull's quarters.”

  Wilkes made his way down below decks and soon filed in through the door behind the Chief. The smell of coffee and cigarette smoke filled the small room.

  “Thank you, gentlemen. Please, at ease and sit yourselves down. How are all the departments, Captain?”

  Turnbull looked squarely at Wilkes.

  Clearing his throat, he began, “I've made preparations for the convoy. We'll be in position within the hour. The Italians will lay the mines and we should be in a good place for when Berlin arrives, sir.”

  “Good,” smiled Turnbull, “so no problems then.”

  “Not really sir, we have a ferry out of Portsmouth that seems to be sailing slower than normal but she'll pass out of the area before we commence.”

  “Good, very good! Chief, how are we holding up?”

  “Not too bad, Admiral. The engines are running well but I'm not too sure whether one of the generators will last at full power for the whole exercise. I have a team working on it, sir.”

  “Doctor, are we ready to receive our mock casualties?”

  “Yes, Admiral. Sick bay is prepared and set up for multiple incoming using the Canteen and Mess Deck for Triage units. All manned and ready to go, sir.”

  The end of that sentence was interrupted by the sound of a phone ringing. Turnbull answered. “Ah! I see. Anything else to report?” he asked. “Keep an eye on it. Any change, let me know immediately.” Replacing the receiver, he sat quietly before Wilkes spoke, “Everything OK, sir?”

  “I'm not sure. Sonar reports a signal shadowing us at 145 yards astern,” mused the Admiral. “A small target, possibly a periscope.”

  “A submarine in the Channel?” exclaimed the Chief. “Could it be ours or American?”

  “I know as much as you do, gentlemen. Until we have more information, we continue as planned.”

  “Bet it's the Russians,” commented Wilkes.

  “That's just guesswork. We deal with facts not supposition. Dismissed.”

  All of them began to leave until only the Chief remained.

  “I said 'Dismissed', Chief”

  “I know. Do you not think we should alert the other vessels, Admiral?”

  “Alert them about what, Chief? That we may have a possible signal, but we aren't sure? No, we continue as planned.”

  “Yes, sir.” The Chief sensed as he left the room that the Admiral wasn't certain of what to do but they always followed his orders to the letter.

  Chapter 51

  “Captain. Berlin has just come into radar range, sir.”

  “Very good. Has the ferry signalled its call sign?”

  “Yes sir. Duc de Barnais Captain Roux wished us “Good Day and Happy Sailing.”

  Wilkes nodded, “and has Roma signalled its completion of the minefield yet?

  “Ten seconds ago, sir, she signalled completion of her last line.”

  “Very good! Signal BATTLE STATIONS. All Channels.”

  The alarms sounded and the klaxons rang throughout the ship. Turnbull sat forward in the bridge wing chair.

  “Radio silence, all vessels. We are now in Battle Simulation.”

  “Captain! Radar contact.”

  “Captain! Sonar contact. Fast propellers and possible bubbles and cavitations.”

  “Where?” shouted Wilkes.

  “Aft, sir.”

  Turnbull raced to the port bridge wing rail and looked aft. A white trail of bubbles ran some 150 metres away.

  “Radio Roma. Inform her EVASIVE MANOEUVRES”

  But it was too late. The bubbles stopped and hit her amidships with a massive explosion, the Italian vessel lurched to one side, a plume of flame leapt up into the sky and she was momentarily engulfed in smoke. As it cleared, Turnbull and Wilkes could see her listing badly.

  The radio was alive with Mayday calls. Scanning the horizon, the two senior officers could see sailors scaling nets, some jumping off the now steeply tilting deck. The blare of klaxons rang out only partially obscuring the shouts of men in the water.

  “Communications! Radio Kentucky and Aconite,” ordered Turnbull. “Tell them to watch for contacts – possible hostile submarine. Emergency crew – sailors in the water. Take her in as close as we can,.”

  “Admiral!” shouted Wilkes, “suppose they fire again. In my opinion, we should keep sailing.”

  “Duly noted Captain but we've no choice. Obey my orders.”

  Talisman slowly began to turn.

  “Station all lookouts on all decks. Forward and aft, “shouted Wilkes. “I want to keep an eye out for that sub.”

  “Sir!” shouted one lookout. “Look sir, Roma.….”

  They reached the rail just in time to witness her roll over. Her red keel faced the sky for a scant three minutes before slipping under, leaving only the anguished screams of her distressed and injured crew bobbing like corks on the flat ocean.

  Turnbull picked up the bridge phone. “Medical Bay respond.”

  “Medical bay here, sir,”

  “Moorhouse, prepare for real patients. This is not a drill. I repeat, this is not a drill.”

  A hesitant and solemn Moorhouse acknowledged, “Aye, sir.”

  No sooner had he replaced the handset than Turnbull was called by Bridge Communications. “Sir! I'm getting communication from Duc De Barnais. They've witnessed the accident and have reversed course in order to assist.”

  Turnbull looked at Wilkes. “My God, Signal CAPTAIN... DUC DE BARNAIS... DO... NOT... REPEAT... DO... NOT... ENTER... AREA... RECOMMEND...FULL...SPEED.”

  “Aye sir.”

  Both men raced back to the rail and scanned the horizon again. Horrified, they saw Duc de Barnais closing. “Communications. Have they responded? Send again.”

  It was too late. Another trail of bubbles shot towards the bow of the approaching ferry.

  “Why doesn't she turn? Can't she see it?”

  “Should I radio them, sir?”

  “Yes!” responded Wilkes, “HARD... APORT”

  “No, wait. Radio HOLD...COURSE.”

  “Sir!” exclaimed Wilkes.

  “Tell them HOLD... COURSE.”

  “Belay that order, Communications,” shouted Wilkes.

  The radio operator didn't know what to do
.

  “Still the countdown,” the Admiral ordered the seaman. “Tell them BRACE... BUT... HOLD... COURSE”

  “Aye sir,” gasped a confused radio operator.

  “Impact in 10...9...8...7...6...5...4...3...2...1...” A massive explosion as the torpedo struck her at the bow. The Admiral and Wilkes looked over at the now smoke-engulfed ferry. “Communications make contact. Ask about their current condition and what we can do to help. Helm! Place us between the last torpedo’s origin and Duc de Barnais.”

  “Admiral!” said Captain Wilkes.

  Cutting him off, the Admiral responded with, “Should you wish to countermand my orders again, then I suggest you do not do it in front of the crew.”

  “Admiral! You risked the lives of everyone on board that ship. They might have been able to avoid the torpedo had they been warned. Much like the Roma, if we had alerted them of the contact sooner.”

  Taking a deep breath, Turnbull replied, “Had they turned, the torpedo would have hit midship, killing most of the passengers. As it happens, the bow doors will have taken the impact and there would have been fewer people in that area.”

  “I hope you're correct, Admiral,” replied Wilkes tersely.

  “Admiral, Captain Roux is in contact.” said the Radio operator.

  “Patch it through to the speakers.”

  “SITUATION....SECURE . . .MINIMAL....FLOODING. . .NO....CASUALTIES....

  MINOR....INJURIES....RETURNING....TO....PORTSMOUTH....THANK....YOU.... TALISMAN....GOOD....FORTUNE.”

  “Signal VERY GOOD, Now raise Kentucky, instruct her to rendezvous with the ferry and to shadow her into Portsmouth.”

  Staring at Wilkes, Turnbull said, “We'll discuss this later. We have injured seamen to secure and then we must find that sub.”

  “Radar? Sonar? Anything?” asked the Captain.

  “No, sir, all quiet.”

  “Well listen hard and maintain observation,” ordered Turnbull. “She's somewhere down there. I want answers. Analyse the sound of those props. I want to know what we're dealing with....best answers in one hour, gentlemen.”

  Returning to his quarters for a short while, Turnbull slumped in his chair cradling his brow. “May God forgive me for not alerting the convoy… I'll never forgive myself” Realising he had no time for the crippling guilt which would inevitably come later, he returned to the Bridge.

  This all made no sense. Why go after a ferry? There was no tactical advantage. And why did it not attack Talisman? She was in the firing line running a straight course at just over eighteen knots. Fast, but not too fast.

  “Sir, Kentucky has set course for Portsmouth. Both ships are making 10 knots. The captain says 'Good hunting'”

  Hunting. That's it! Tonnage. While the ferry itself had no strategic advantage, it was a juicier target. But who perpetrated the attack …..and why?

  Chapter 52

  After an intensive program of testing over the next week, Weib had finally signed off the complement of torpedoes laden with the bio toxin. The two prepared test units sat on the dockside near the rear of the installation, the wooden packing cases clearly labelled with a swastika. As Weib and Horst Adlar were supervising the loading, a familiar black car pulled up at the entrance.

  “Richter” warned Weib.

  The SS officer came swaggering towards them, his long leather coat and immaculate uniform putting Weib and Horst's worn clothing to shame.

  “Gentlemen!” greeted Richter cheerfully. He tapped the crates, lovingly. “So, here they are. I've seen the tests. You're both to be commended on their perfect performance.” Then before Weib could answer, he continued, “You will be happy to know that you'll accompany the weapons to Lorient in order to supervise their loading.”

  Horst blurted, “Once we've completed this, will I be allowed to return home?”

  “But of course! You've done a wonderful service for the Reich and our Fuhrer has ordered me to give you whatever you're due. Now hurry, as we have very little time to waste.”

  “Our effects...?” asked Weib.

  “Someone will send them on. Quickly now, we must catch the tide.” ordered Richter.

  After the bulky crates were stacked and safely strapped into the back of a covered lorry, a soldier gestured for Weib and Adlar to climb in. With a roar, the lorry started up and jerked forward setting off down the drive. It gradually gathered speed and Weib could see Richter's black car keeping a close distance behind, followed by a half track and two motor cycles which had been waiting outside the gates of the chateau. The motorcade made slow but steady progress through the Breton countryside.

  Suddenly, machine gun fire was heard and shouts rang out around them. With it came the unmistakeable sound of a plane which had been hidden from sight by the sun. Bullets strafed the convoy but missed the vehicles, hitting the ground instead and sending showers of stones and grit through the air. The plane swept round for another pass, the half track sending a hail of bullets up towards it. The reprisal, however, was too late as the plane had found its mark and reduced the heavy vehicle to a blazing hulk. Soldiers could be heard shouting but Weib was unable to make out any word save “tunnel” Speeding up, the convoy left the now smouldering half track blocking the road. Rounding a bend they immediately entered a tunnel and drove forward into an inky darkness and waited for what seemed an age. With the convoy's idling motors, the unpleasant smell of fumes soon became increasingly noticeable and everyone was relieved when Richter's finally called out “Onwards! We must go.”

  As the vehicles edged forwards into the open, all seemed clear for the first few miles but soon they began to hear, yet again, the telltale drone, faintly at first, then gradually getting louder. This time, there were two aircraft, weaving about up high. Adlar and Horst watched from the open flap of the lorry as one plane rolled and began to dive, smoke pluming from its tail. It crashed beyond the hills, a lone parachute floating downwards, then was gone from sight. The second plane banked and turned. Weib felt very uneasy as it drew closer. “There's no tunnel this time!” he whispered to his colleague. However, the sight of the black Luftwaffe cross painted on the underside of the wings eased his nerves. The pilot tipped the wings in the international signal showing they had been recognised and flew off in the direction of the crash.

  The soldier seated at the back of their lorry cheered, “I guess that's the last bit of excitement for this journey!” though Weib had his doubts.

  The light began to fail as evening approached. With Adlar curled up asleep on the bench seat beside him. Weib watched as Richter's car pulled out and quickly overtook the convoy, speeding off down the road. He didn't like this, something didn't sit well in his gut.

  A few minutes later, they began to slow. Turning off the main road, the lorry bumped and clanged down a badly rutted track under an avenue of densely packed trees. With a squeal of brakes they stopped in a large clearing.

  Amid the slamming of doors, the tramp of jackboots on the wet ground grew audible. Shaking Adlar, who came awake with a start, Weib whispered, “Something's wrong!” and turned to ask the guard. He was greeted with a rifle butt to his face. Adlar, a powerful man, put up a struggle but was soon overpowered by more guards climbing into the back of the lorry. Before long the two men were hooded and bound hands and feet They were dragged roughly from the vehicle and forced into a kneeling position on the sodden ground. Richter stood composing his features into a gentle smile, “Gentlemen, I would like to thank you both for your exceptional work. However, it is now time for us to part company.”

  The prisoners raised their voices to plead, but the rags in their mouths only caused their muffled curses to be beyond understanding.

  “Oh please” said Richter, “surely you weren't naive enough to think we could simply allow you to go back to your normal lives. You know too much. Now, goodbye, gentlemen.”

  The pair expected their execution to be instantaneous but instead they heard voices from a distance, too far away and too indistinct to hear
what was being said or what was happening. Instead, they knelt in the darkness waiting for death.

  Chapter 53

  It had taken a little longer than expected to get the massive hull out of K2’s dry dock, but now, finally, Huber and young Franz stood watching as the submarine passed them, descending the last few feet down into the water. Spotters were stationed the whole length of the vessel on the deck and dock, and yard crew posted inside to look for leaks. As the leviathan began to slowly rise off the trolley in the wet pen of K1 the tension around the dock was palpable. Reports came in slowly from the workers inside and Huber marked each off on his check sheet. “Just one to go,” he thought, “but it's the big one!”

  “48 centimetres,” came a shout. Huber held his breath. “46 centimetres in the bilge and holding. That will do ….. and the pumps are not even turned on!” He smiled, speaking quietly to himself, “Well Keller my friend, we did it! We did it!”

  The yard crew continued the buzz and frenzy of activity, welders, fitters and electricians, all checked their specific systems. A large snorkel that had been fitted in its horizontal position on the deck was now raised and the rumble of the big diesels on the decks below made the deck plates move and shudder. Huber felt a real sense of achievement as not only had they created a true sea-going marvel, they had done it in a relatively short space of time. He just wished Keller had been here to see it. Happy that they had completed their day's objectives, the two men returned to the drafts room and began to clear their desks.

  The sound of footsteps in the corridor broke the companionable silence. An officer followed by two soldiers appeared in the doorway. “Herr Huber, Herr Adlar, please come with us. Herr Richter requests your presence immediately”.

  Huber was frightened. Keller had warned him that this might happen. The men walked down the corridor through the side exit of K2. A staff car sat idling by the door flanked by two motorcycles. The drivers acknowledged the designers as they were ushered into the back seat. As the car began its careful exit from the dock, the officer seated in the front turned and smiled, “Please, don't be concerned. Herr Richter realises that this is a very important day and wishes to congratulate you personally.”