THE NEPTUNE STRATEGY: A Todd Ingram Novel (The Todd Ingram Series Book 4)

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  The song began and seconds later, they were dancing to the ballad on the concrete walkway. After a moment, Landa pulled her close. She felt wonderful and moved with him, slow step by slow step. He luxuriated in the gardenia, and orange blossoms, and lingering hamburger and even beer and wished he could somehow freeze the moment forever. Then remembering Helen’s perfume, he took a deep breath expecting CHANEL #5. Instead, he snorted.

  “What?” She looked up to him.

  God she’s beautiful. “I smell baby,” He looked down to her, his grin flashing in the moonlight. “Talcum.”

  When she smiled back, he bent to kiss her. But she turned her head a bit, so he buried his face in her neck and wrapped both arms around her. Then he reached up, untied the scarf and let it fall to the ground. He kissed her neck then rose and brushed her cheek with his. He drew back to kiss her again. When she turned away again, he said. “I’m sorry.” He held her tighter. They swayed in place.

  “I’m sorry too. I’m not being good. It must be the beer.” She hiccupped. “It just doesn’t feel right.”

  Landa ran his hands up and down her back. “Feels right to me.” He’s gone, Helen. Don’t you know that?

  She looked up to him. Again he tried to kiss her and she covered his mouth. “Jerry, I--”

  The back door slammed open and something rustled on the walkway. They turned to see Mrs. Peabody rushing up to them. Wheezing horribly, she braced herself on the table for support.

  “Emma, what is it?” Helen turned from Landa and took Mrs. Peabody’s hands. “Are you all right? Come. Sit.” Helen sat with her then said with alarm, “The baby! Is that it?”

  “No!” Gasped Mrs. Peabody, her hand to her chest. “...fine...fast asleep.” She looked at Helen. “Go!”

  “Go where?”

  Taking a deep breath, she said, “The phone. Western Union. A cable from your husband, Todd. They read it to me. He’s alive!”

  “What!” Helen jumped up. Landa did too.

  “...Australia,” she said. “Oh mercy me.” She pointed a wobbly finger. “They want to speak with you. Can you believe it? He’s alive.” Looking to the sky, she clasped her hands together. “Thank you, God.”

  “I don’t … I don’t--”

  Mrs. Peabody nearly shrieked, “Go! They’re waiting!”

  Wordlessly, Helen ran for her house at full tilt.

  “I’ll be damned,” said Landa, watching Helen disappear.

  Mrs. Peabody dropped her head onto her arms, sobbing quietly. Landa sat beside her and put his hand on her shoulder, patting her.

  Next door, Helen yelped with joy.

  “It’s all so...” Mrs. Peabody was still out of breath. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. But my oh, my...”

  “It’s fine, Emma. Just fine. What great news.” Jerry Landa, you are one dirty son of a bitch.

  Three minutes later, he thanked a teary-eyed Mrs. Peabody, excused himself and drove to the Long Beach Naval Station Officers Club where it took five shot glasses of scotch to look another human being in the eye. Just before tossing off each shot, he slurred, “...Jerry Boom Boom Landa. You are one dirty son of a bitch.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  10 August, 1944

  Kreigsmarine Submarine U-581

  Passe de L ’Quest

  Lorient, France

  Kapitän-Lieutenant Conrad Blücher had no neck. His head was round as a pumpkin, and when the tension was up, his eyes were as wide as if propped with tooth-picks. No wonder the crew called their Kaleun (short for Kapitän-Lieutenant) ‘soccer ball.’ But that was always behind his back, not to his face.

  Standing beside him on the bridge, Taubman watched as Blücher jammed binoculars to those enormous eyes, doing his best to see through this damned early-dawn fog. Thick hairy fingers twirled the fine focus, his white captain’s hat rippling in a soft breeze. A man of the sea, Blücher had served on sailing ships in his youth. Step by step he worked his way up, and now he was a submariner’s submariner. His Ritterkreuz, dangling from its black, white and red ribbon, proved it. Short and powerfully built, his girth had been trimmed by eighty-six days at sea. When he wasn’t exhausted or drinking schnapps, his eyes were a clear blue, and his jowls bounced when he laughed, making him look avuncular. But that could be disarming. Taubman found out the hard way, ten days after his surgery.

  Feeling better, he decided to climb to the bridge and sniff the fine ocean breeze, the boat rolling lazily through a ten degree arc. But he forgot to ask permission. As a Korvettenkapitän, Taubman outranked Kapitän-Lieutenant Blücher by one grade. But that didn’t stop Blücher from shouting at Taubman before everyone on the bridge, and later in the control room, and even later at the evening meal. After that run in, it became clear to Taubman that the way Conrad Blücher did business with people was to beat the hell out of them at the first opportunity, trusting that would hold for the duration.

  But Blücher didn’t bear grudges; when it was over, it was over. And as before, he would greet his men with a broad, gat-toothed smile, thumping them, officer or enlisted, on the back. As far as Blücher was concerned, all men of the Dönitz Volunteer Corp were brothers, a dark distinction, since the U-boat mortality rate was approaching seventy percent.

  After the Normandy landings, the bombing attacks on Lorient had been stepped up to a daily basis. Thus, everyone on the bridge was outfitted with binoculars and Blücher expected them to be put to use. That included Taubman, along with the engineering and torpedo officers, Hartmann and Mecke, six enlisted lookouts, and the four men on the Oerlikon flack gun. Of necessity, there were watchstanders in the control and engine rooms, but since it was too shallow to dive, Blücher had the rest of the crew turned out on deck, their grey-green overalls blending into the mist. Life jackets were jammed at the base of the conning tower, the men shuffling back and forth, casting nervous glances at the sky.

  What good do binoculars do, Taubman wondered, as he peered into the fog? The entrance to Lorient and the French coast lay just four kilometers ahead, and yet he couldn’t see in this stuff. Nor could he hear, except for the pounding of his heart which attempted to keep pace with the U-581's thundering diesels.

  “Time to turn, Herr Kaleun.” Boemke, the navigator, popped up the hatch. “Recommend course zero-six-zero.”

  “Very well,” rumbled Blücher. “Come left to zero-six-zero.” He took out a cigarette, lit it, and turned to Taubman. “Welcome back to Europe, Martin. Excited?”

  Taubman couldn’t tell if he was scared or excited. “It’s been close to three years, Herr Kaleun.” He waved toward the French coast. “It would be nice to see Europe without the Tommies jumping down your throat.”

  “Don’t worry. Our escort is well-armed and e-boats are stationed on either beam. The last thing Uncle Karl wants is for his boys to get bloody noses on their way into port.” Blücher referred to the armed escort Altair steaming two hundred meters ahead. They’d rendezvoused with her off the Ile De Groix two hours ago. Bristling with anti-aircraft guns, she was a converted trawler that doubled as a minesweeper and anti-aircraft vessel. An hour ago, the Altair’s silhouette was visible. But, as the U-581 drew abeam of Ile De Groix, fog poured over them like cream from a pitcher. The Altair and the E-boats disappeared. The only evidence now was a small trailing line of foam from her wake in the early morning grayness.

  Suddenly they were out of the fog, and France sprung at them, the pre-dawn horizon razor-sharp under a brilliant, yellow sky. Barrage balloons hung over the city like a herd of cockroaches. Off their port bow was Port Louis, its ancient citadel guarding the main entrance to Lorient Harbor. What immediately struck Taubman was the utter devastation of the city. Except for the massive U-boat bunkers, the town had been blasted by allied bombers. Here and there, a decayed wall or a lone chimney reached to the sky, testifying where homes and shops once stood. Closer in, smoke wisped up from a wooden structure that looked as if it had been a warehouse. The water was littered with oil and debris and dead bi
rds. “Dismal,” said Blücher. “Worse than when we left. What do you think?”

  “Never been here,” said Taubman. “I went from Germany to Vladivostok in November, 1941 via the Trans-Siberian railway.”

  “Pity Der Fuhrer ruined your travel plans.” Blücher referred to Germany’s attack on the Soviet Union in June, 1941. A slight against Hitler, Taubman knew it wouldn’t be tolerated ashore. “But, some things never change. Take a look at that, for example.” Blücher waved a hand to port.

  “Yes?” Taubman trained his binoculars to his left. Atop a hill, about five kilometers distant, stood a three story Victorian building with a tall peaked-roof.

  “That’s Kernéval,” said Blücher. “Command Headquarters of our esteemed Grand Admiral Karl Dönitz.” Flashing a toothy grin, Blücher’s eyes grew wide with sarcasm as he referred to Germany’s Chief Flag Officer of U-boats, his title: Befehlshaber der U-boote (BdU). “The Tommies haven’t figured out a way to bomb out BdU, yet. Although I’m sure he’s gone now. Probably hightailed it with the rest of those cowards before--” Knowing he’d gone too far, Blücher cast a nervous glance at Taubman.

  Taubman lowered his binoculars, doing his best to draw a stone-faced expression. He even flared his nostrils a bit to make the little bastard sweat over his political slur. He didn’t care if Blücher and his boys were pro-Nazi or pro-Churchill. But why not use this opportunity to get back at this sanctimonious little toad?

  A signalman called from the cigarette deck. “Message, sir, from port commander.”

  “Well, read it, damnit.”

  “--Welcome home. U-581 is assigned to Kéroman III, berth eleven, starboard side to.’”

  Blücher straightened his Ritterkreuz and said, “Good. Straight in. Very well, time to get into work.” He cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled to the crew on deck. “Right, men. Fall into ranks for entering port.” He called down the hatch. “Set harbor stations. Stand by to shift to electric propulsion and shut down the diesels. Make turns for five knots.”

  Boemke’s head popped though the hatch. “Time to turn, Herr Kaleun. Recommend course zero-one-six.” Then he disappeared.

  “Very well.” Blücher yelled down the hatch, “port engine stop. Starboard engine slow ahead. Rudder to left fifteen. Steady up on course zero-one-six.”

  When U-581 settled on her new course he rasped to Taubman in a low voice, “Martin?”

  “Yes, Herr Kaleun?”

  “Conrad, please.”

  “Conrad.”

  “You’re not going to report me are you, Martin? I was only joking.”

  As Germany piled up her conquests, the Todt Organization, an enormous para-military construction company, built military bunkers and other facilities throughout Europe. In so doing, Todt used immense quantities of raw materials and employed slave labor on a large scale. The biggest projects were concrete bunkers protecting U-boats from bomber raids. The first two were completed in Hamburg in 1940 and 1941. Soon after, one more was finished in Trondheim, Norway, with another under construction. With the fall of France, thirteen more bunkers were built during 1941 along Hitler’s “Atlantic Wall,” all completed in an astonishing eleven months. Headquarters to the 7th U-flotilla, Lorient was the largest facility, with six bunkers. St. Nazaire, La Pallice, and Bordeaux, each had two submarine bunkers. Brest had one.

  Lorient’s rather soporific name was derived from the word L’ Orient -- the East. Founded during the eighteenth century, its beginnings was as a trading and warehousing village for goods arriving from East Asia. But Lorient lost its Eastern trade to larger cities and was reduced to a fishing village. It grew again when the French Navy moved in during the early twentieth century. By the time the Germans occupied France in 1940, Lorient had a population of 46,000, employed either by the Navy or the dockyards or in the fishing industry.

  U-581's berth was Kéroman III, one of three bunkers sitting on the Kéroman promontory, overlooking the Port Louis Roadstead. It was a “wet pen,” with a capacity for docking twelve U-boats. By comparison, the other pens, Kéroman I and Kéroman II, Dombunker East, Dombunker West, and the Scorff (River) bunker were “dry pens,” where the submarines were hauled from the water on massive dollies and slotted into one of the well-protected pens for overhaul.

  Huge armor blast doors guarded the entrance to Kéroman III, while inside, thick concrete columns supported a concrete roof, which was a staggering seven meters thick. Like the other complexes, Kéroman III was self-sufficient; housing communications offices, medical facilities, administrative offices, transformers and diesel generators, anti-aircraft gun emplacements to counter low-flying aircraft, munitions, fuel tanks, water purification plant, and machine and repair shops.

  U-581 approached Kéroman III at dead slow speed, the bunker looming before them larger and larger; massive, cold, rectangular, and functional. Armored blast doors were closed to the other pens, except for a cavernous berth 11 which yawned open, waiting. Inside, three U-boats were moored, an empty berth nearest the exit. Within fifty meters Taubman could see officers in dress uniforms, pacing on the quay. Behind them, against the wall, light glinted off a uniformed band and their brass musical instruments.

  “A welcoming committee, Herr Kaleun?” Taubman asked.

  Blücher’s eyebrows shot up. “Yawohl.” Straightening cap and Ritterkreuz, he became all business, shifting to electrical power and shutting down the diesels. His slur forgotten, Blücher jumped from side to side of his little bridge, shouting orders down U-581's hatch. Bouncing about, he carved a wider and wider area on the bridge as he conned his ship under the bunker’s massive entrance. Eventually Taubman, Mecke, and Hartmann were jammed against the lookouts and the flak-gun crew at the aft end of the conning tower.

  Passing under the bunker’s roof, the glory of the sunlight and pure morning air abruptly changed to a cacophony of blades chewing into steel, compressors thumping, air hissing and acetylene torches sparking and throwing off great clouds of smoke. In the slip ahead, enormous Jupiter lamps beamed a hoary brightness on a submarine’s bent and twisted conning tower, where dark overalled figures worked with cutting torches and crowbars.

  Mooring lines snaked through the air and were caught by U-581 crewmen, the submarine gliding no more than two meters alongside the quay wall. As the first line hit the U-581's deck, a whistle blew and the band struck up Deutschland Über Alles. On deck, sailors shouted greetings to men on the quay, while against the walls in shadows, mute workers wearing drab overalls and carrying tool boxes, stood in groups, their faces devoid of expression.

  U-581 eased into her berth and was snubbed to a gentle stop. “Double up all lines,” Blücher bellowed. Then he cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted down the hatch, “Finished with engines.” With a churlish glance at Taubman, he nodded at the officers gathered on the quay wall and said quietly, “Admiral Dönitz is not here to greet us like in the old days. Too bad.” Then he stepped high on a bracket and, jamming his fists to his hips, looked forward, then aft. Satisfied, he yelled, “Welcome home, men. Liberty in thirty minutes. Now, come on. Let’s look sharp.” Waving a hand at the quay wall, he said, “Gangway coming aboard. Standby to receive Flotilla Commander.” He waved at Mecke and Hartmann. Obligingly, they scrambled down the ladder and joined the other officers of U-581 standing in ranks just forward of the conning tower.

  The banging abated enough for Taubman to hear the band strike up a mournful ballad. He cocked an ear and listened.

  “How moving,” Blücher stepped down from his perch and raised an eyebrow. “Lili Marleen. Beautiful, don’t you agree?”

  “Enchanting,” agreed Taubman. He had the record in Japan and had worn it out.

  “Did you know that Lili Marleen was put on the forbidden list by our leaders in the propaganda ministry?” Blücher gave a crooked smile.

  “No, I didn’t.” Taubman followed Blücher down the ladder. When he drew next to him on the main deck he said, “How could they? It’s so beautiful.”


  “Because the Tommies and the Americans love it, that’s why. Now, our Reichleaders have determined that Tommies and Americans are sub-humans. Right? Therefore, the song must be sub-human.” Blücher threw his head back and laughed. “What do you think of that?”

  Taubman waved a hand in frustration as the band played the song.

  Blücher said, “What can the Riechstag do to a band that plays Lili Marleen that is surrounded by Americans. Shoot them?”

  “I don’t know, Herr Kaleun.”

  Blücher shook his head. “Me neither. Come, you must meet Rudy before that blasted pounding starts again.” He started walking forward.

  “Rudy?”

  “Fregattenkapitän Rudy Krüger. Our Flotilla Commander. He’s one of us.”

  Taubman raised his eyebrows, wondering what Blücher meant by ‘one of us.’ But Blücher turned and walked past the conning tower to join his officers lined up at the head of the gangway. Taubman eased off to the side and stood against the conning tower.

  Blücher barked and his officers came to attention. With that, the Fregattenkapitän started for the gangway. At first glance, he seemed full of youth and vitality. Wearing a summer tan uniform, he was blond with clear grey eyes, and his face was clean as if he’d never shaved. But he stumbled a bit as he mounted the gangway, and holding the wooden rails tightly, he limped. The Fregattenkapitän saluted the flag, then Blücher, and stepped aboard unsteadily. Like Blücher, the Fregattenkapitän also wore the Ritterkreuz, this one with oak leave clusters. On his left breast were four rows of campaign ribbons. Beneath that was a wounded badge. Immediately following the Flotilla Commander was a Kapitänleutnant carrying a thick briefcase in his right hand, a cane draped over his left arm. After exchanging salutes, the Flotilla Commander and Blücher bear-hugged and clapped shoulders. Amongst the noise, Taubman heard the grinning Flotilla Commander say, “Good to see you, Soccer Ball.”

  Then he took Blücher’s elbow and walked him slowly forward where they stood off by themselves, speaking quietly for two or three minutes. Blücher’s eyes grew wider and wider until the Flotilla Commander threw his hands in the air and looked up saying, “Ach!”