Submariner Sinclair: A thrilling WW2 military adventure story (The Submariner Sinclair Naval Thriller Series Book 1)

by John Wingate

  Kapitan Ulrich von Kramer, Officer Commanding the S.S. garrison guarding the Castellare Poliano Prisoner of War Camp, had lunched well. He sat at the head of the rectangular polished table, his four junior officers on either side of him.

  Although von Kramer was just six feet high, he did not give the impression of being tall and this was due perhaps to his bulk, for he had a massive barrel of a chest. Yet he was as hard as seasoned oak, with no spare flesh on his whipcord body. What little hair he had was flecking grey at the temples and short bristles of stubble jutted from his bullet-shaped head, which protruded pinkly, like an oblong egg, from the deep collar of his field-grey jacket.

  It was difficult to describe the mobile face that had made him such a master of his profession for he was ranked by Himmler as being among one of the six foremost espionage agents in the German S.S.

  A commonplace face was the first requirement of a spy, and von Kramer’s appearance would have been very difficult to memorise. His features seemed to change with his environment, so that one could not identify anything definite. Just as the shadows of the clouds sweep across the valleys on blustery days, his face would melt and then fix in a completely different expression in as many seconds.

  Apart from this natural ability, he also possessed the instinctive art of disguise and it was this quality that had gained him so many successes and triumphs for the Fatherland. He had been in England during 1941 and the repulse of the attack on Dieppe had been mainly because of von Kramer’s information when, disguised as an innkeeper in one of the south coast resorts, his perfect command of the English language had stood him in good stead.

  He was a dangerous and efficient man.

  As Commandant of this new concentration camp, his post was temporary. Himmler had thought that von Kramer was showing signs of strain and needed three months’ rest, so the new camp at Castellare Poliano seemed the right appointment for a man of Kramer’s bullying nature. Himmler was not over-fussy about the survival of enemy submarine crews, and Kramer could not count squeamishness as one of his failings. As he had no nerves or scruples, he was, in fact, just the man for the job.

  But last night’s fiasco had touched his vanity. His brown eyes, close-set and sunk in their sockets, glinted dangerously. Bullying was his speciality and he now had ample opportunity to give full rein to his whim.

  “Gott und dämmerung!” he roared, snatching the white napkin from his collar with one hand, while the other fist crashed on the table, setting the cutlery and glass a-jingling. Nervously the younger officers coughed and waited for the wrath to subside, but this seemed to be a storm above all storms, for the President of the Mess, their bullying Kapitan, had even forgotten to rise for the toast to “The Führer”, whose photograph hung on the wall of their vault of a dining hall. For hours during the long forenoon, the officers had kept well clear of him on some pretext or other, but now they had to face the music.

  “You lily-livered idiots. You should never have left your mothers’ knees. Here we are, only a week in this accursed Italian island castle, and you let down the German S.S. like this!”

  Von Kramer had resented his appointment to Castellare Poliano, feeling that he had been given a back-number of an appointment. Himmler was a fool! He did not recognise talent when he saw it, but he, von Kramer, would show these Sicilian ice-cream merchants which was the master race — he’d show them, yes, and that short-sighted Himmler, too, for all his big talk!

  Slowly his wicked eyes glittered at the pale faces before him! What a lot! Even his officers were second-rate.

  “Seidlitz!”

  “Jawohl, mein Kapitan?”

  “Why did you fail to call me when you heard the scream? You were on duty, weren’t you?”

  “Ja, mein Herr, but I…”

  Von Kramer interrupted him ruthlessly. “Stop talking! You’re too incompetent and soft for the S.S. I shall see that you are transferred to something more appropriate.”

  Seidlitz did not look up, but comforted himself with the thought that Kramer would not dare to report the inefficiency to headquarters. The incident reflected upon the Commanding Officer as much as anyone else, so Seidlitz kept silent, knowing that it was useless to offer any defence.

  “But why am I wasting my time with imbeciles like you? I have a plan,” von Kramer hissed between his teeth. “You will do me the honour of listening extremely carefully, and this time, for the Führer’s sake, and for your own necks too, see that you don’t bungle it. Fritz! Shut the door.”

  When the youngest officer had reseated himself, von Kramer warmed to his theme. His face started to glisten with tiny beads of perspiration, while his little eyes almost disappeared into the creases of his eye sockets.

  His enormous fists hung by his sides, and it was the action of his long fingers that betrayed an identifiable peculiarity. The fists opened and shut, the short fingers crackling in their joints as they clenched and unclenched rhythmically. The knuckles showed white, and the snapping of the tendons sent shivers down the spines of his onlookers.

  “I couldn’t dispose of these English pig-dogs today. These inefficient spaghetti-mongers of Italians do not understand us Germans and were too tired to have the barracks at Taormina ready before Tuesday. We’ll move all the prisoners the day after tomorrow, lock, stock and torpedo-tubes.”

  He burst into uncontrollable laughter at his own heavy joke, so that his shaking body set the glassware on the table jingling again while the officers’ faces cracked into obsequious smiles of appreciation.

  “Tonight these English swine may try another rescue attempt for their much-respected friend” — and he nodded his head towards the site of the south-western tower. “It would be a pity,” he continued, “if we had to shoot him for attempted escape, wouldn’t it?” he leered.

  “But, Herr Kapitan, that would…”

  The insolence of the interrupter was checked instantly.

  “Silence, you infant! Listen to what I have to say,” snapped von Kramer truculently, his anger abated, his hands motionless. Then he pushed his chair back from the table, so that it slid swaying for a moment before it clattered back upon the paved floor.

  “Lieutenant Arkwright of the accursed Royal Navy is a large man. But not,” he continued, coughing modestly, “quite so well built as I. But, nevertheless, the similarity is close enough.”

  The officers gave each other amused glances as Kramer continued. “Let him remain in his cell” — again the bullet head nodded upwards — “let him remain there, but let us allow him to watch the play enacted before his eyes. Let him witness with his own eyes the scene of his own friends crushed between my fingers.”

  He pressed his short, stubby fingers together, so that his knuckles crackled.

  “Like beetles beneath my boots.”

  Again came a burst of maniacal laughter, which caused surreptitious glances among the officers.

  “You see, gentlemen, I will take Arkwright’s place. He shall be chained to the wall in the small annexe which leads from his cell. He will thereby have a first-class seat. He shall watch the flies crawling into my web,” Kramer continued. “We shall welcome these English pigs, quietly and without any fuss but Arkwright will be unable to warn them. We’ll see to that. We’ll — er — liquidate him afterwards for attempted escape. His men will be told that he tried to bolt.”

  As the officers leaned forward to hear the final details of the parts they had to play, the sun had already passed over the southern tower, casting a longer shadow across the grim courtyard with its guarded huts. The faces of the prisoners could be seen pressing against the windowpanes as they craved for the warmth of the sun.

  From the top of his western tower, Harry Arkwright slowly paced his damp cell. He heard faintly the triumphant laughter gusting across the courtyard from the Officers’ Mess, and was very worried. What had gone wrong last night? Surely Peter wouldn’t try again? How could they be warned, for he was sure that the Germans were going to use him for bait for some
fiendish scheme? He felt like the morsel of cheese on the spikes of a rat-trap, the jaws sprung and ready to snap.

  Slowly, inch by inch, the first rays of the afternoon sun crept through the slit that was his window, leaving a sliver of sunlight patterned on the slimy floor. He could not drag his eyes away.

  “My ray of hope,” he smiled ruefully to himself.

  CHAPTER 10

  … and the Fly

  At long last their plans were ready. It was five o’clock. in the afternoon, and already the air in the little submarine was becoming stale.

  Jan and Peter both nodded in silent assent, as the Captain closed the conference on a serious note.

  “You must realise, of course, that, whatever happens to you, I cannot jeopardise my submarine and ship’s company. Captain ‘S’ was insistent upon this condition, and I must abide by his decision. I know that you chaps will understand. If you don’t show up by one thirty a.m., I will withdraw and rendezvous off the Spella rocks, five miles to the south-eastward. I will remain there until dawn, unless I am forced into the ‘deep field’. I will be there again on the following night if possible. We seem to have stirred up a hornets’ nest already!”

  Thus were their final plans made. They would land in the same cove, for the Huns seemed to think they had landed farther to the northward.

  Jan had struck the German too hard. The unfortunate prisoner had died, the corpse still lying stiff in the after-ends, a blanket over it. They would bury it at sea on surfacing.

  Poor devil! thought Peter. He never really knew what hit him.

  They were to take Very lights and pistols. One green star from the submarine would mean that Rugged would open fire with flashless cordite on a point inland, a mile to the northward to divert the Germans for a while. The Commando, Graves, was to lie up there in order to lend a hand by firing, with small arms, in all possible directions, and then dash back to the landing beach to prepare the boats for immediate launching.

  One red Very light from the shore party would tell Rugged that the Commandos had failed and were making for the rendezvous. They would find some way of getting there — by swimming if need be — for the current was in the right direction. But, in their hearts, they all knew that the red light meant shooting against a wall, or, at the best, captivity for the duration of the war.

  Jan, Jarvis and Jock, skilled men with their small arms, would assemble opposite the main gate. They would allow Peter and Bill Hawkins enough time to scout round to the north-westward, and to scale the north-west corner wall, where Harry was a prisoner, with a grappling iron. When they heard Peter give his cry of the curlew twice, they would open fire with everything they had to simulate a frontal attack upon the main gate.

  This would give Peter and Harry Arkwright time to retreat back along the walls to the grapnel which Bill would be guarding and by which Peter had entered the castle. While Jan and his party attracted the Germans to the area which Rugged was bombarding to the north-westward, Peter, Bill and Harry would work round the exterior of the eastern and southern walls, and back to the cliffs. They would then turn east until they found the fissure in the cliff, and paddle off in the first folboat.

  When Jan had given them enough time, and with Rugged still bombarding, Jan’s party would break off the action and cut back to the cliff, where they would bring up the rear in the two remaining boats which had already been prepared and launched by Graves.

  Bold and simple, thought Peter as he checked his Very pistol and lights. Bold and simple, but it all depends upon perfect timing and a great measure of good luck.

  Dusk had started to fall like a mantle on the azure Mediterranean, as the Captain peered through the for’d periscope.

  “Another perfect, flat, calm night. Overcast and, God willing, too much cloud for the moon at three-thirty,” he said to Jan.

  “We’d better synchronise our watches,” Jan replied tersely.

  Peter could see that Jan’s nerves were strung taut, and that he was itching to get into action. The shore party stood in a quiet group, Bill with the grapnel coiled round him. They were all dressed in the sombre green of the British Commandos as they did not relish being shot as spies if they all failed.

  Half an hour later, Rugged surfaced and the previous night’s routine was repeated. Trimmed right down, she crept slowly in on her main motors.

  Peter, now numbed by excitement, manned his folboat and paddled a few yards clear, Bill in the bows, and waited until all the others were bobbing around them. Then he waved his hand and started paddling, his eyes straining straight before him. Rugged slid silently astern, slowly merging into the horizon. They were alone.

  Ahead, the familiar cliffs and beaches looked menacingly close. An ominous silence brooded as Peter shivered, goose pimples prickling his battledress. The shadow of the black cliffs reached out as if to smother them and once again the surge of the heavy seas licked round the base of the snarling rocks.

  Suddenly there was a bump, followed by a harsh grating along the keel, and as Bill jumped out Peter was already ashore. The others followed as soon as his tiny blue light flickered, ‘O-K’.

  Graves immediately started to hide the boats. No one spoke. This was no time for heroics. Up the cliff scrambled Jan. They reached the top, hearts thumping hard, and expecting a short volley to end the attempt.

  But there was nothing, absolutely nothing. Peter pinched himself. Yes, he was still in this world. He saw the mark on the boulder which had held the rope on the previous night. They had been right, then: the Hun thought that they had landed farther up the coast.

  Agile as a cat, Jan slipped into the scrub, Peter and Bill following close on his heels. When they had gone two hundred yards, Jan stopped in his tracks. He gripped Peter’s hand.

  “God bless,” he whispered.

  “Thank you, Jan. Come on, Bill!”

  Peter and Bill broke off and slipped away to the left, some three hundred yards from the castle walls. Peter looked back. It was entirely up to him now — like the moment he was alone when he made his first trial escape from the diving tank at the submarine school. He braced himself and took a deep breath.

  Cautiously and silently they crept from bush to bush, and soon reached the north corner. There was the massive tower, rising hugely before them. Up in the western tower, a hundred yards to their right, the dull light glowed in the top slit of the window.

  Peter crept forward to the last patch of scrub, some twenty feet from the wall, and lay still for a few moments to recover his breath. Bill was close behind him. Peter looked at his watch. Just right. Another three minutes and Rugged would be opening fire on the beach farther up the coast. That would be his moment. No going back now. He was committed. Success or failure — which would it be? Peter pushed the thought far from his mind and concentrated on the task which lay before him.

  His blood chilled as an owl flapped overhead, its doleful hooting disturbing the silent night. No other sound. Only a treacherous silence. What were the Huns scheming?

  He stiffened. A bright flash was followed by a dull boom from seawards. Rugged had opened the first round. Half rising on one shoulder, he saw the last of the burst. Then another and another. They were doing well, clouds of black dust flying about on the cliff-edge, well to the northward of their cove. The orange glow lit up the black line of the clifftop, throwing the area into pale relief against the horizon of the sea.

  Gruff shouts and a pounding of feet sounded from inside the castle. Lights went on in the lower cells at the southern end.

  “Now!” Peter whispered to Bill.

  Crouching low, they sprang for the foot of the wall, and then lay prone against the damp stone, not daring to breathe. Still nothing, except the confused shouting of disturbed men.

  Then, a hundred yards to the right, a squad of figures doubled out from the gates and went crashing through the undergrowth. Flattening themselves in the shadows, Peter and Bill lay still and waited for the Germans to pass. The stumbling grew fainter as
the enemy disappeared towards the cliffs. Bill uncoiled the rope from his shoulders, quickly and surely making it into a coil in his left hand.

  He took the heavy, four-pronged grapnel, set his feet firmly astride, and hove upwards and over. Whistling and snaking upwards, it whirled in a neat parabola over the top of the castellated wall. He allowed the rope to remain slack and threw himself into the deeper shadows. As the iron clattered on the stonework, the noise seemed deafening, but fortunately it was drowned by one of Rugged’s salvoes.

  Gingerly Peter pulled at the rope, but it came away slowly in his hand.

  “Must we do it again?” he whispered to himself.

  And then the rope no longer came home. He pulled evenly. It held, it was fast. He gave a strong tug. Still no movement.

  “Here goes, Bill!” He heaved himself up the rope, hand over hand in the shadows.

  Just like the gym at school! flashed through his mind. His fingers clasped the top, masonry crumbling under his palms. He took a firm hold, hauled himself over the ledge and dropped on to a parapet. He found himself on a platform about eight feet wide and matted with lichen. Mercifully it was dark and gloomy at this end of the castle so he crept cautiously to the edge of the parapet, and gently raised his head until his eyes took in the scene.

  Below him, four corrugated iron huts, surrounded by a barbed-wire fence, some ten yards clear, formed a rectangle in the centre of the castle courtyard. Through the small windows of the huts he could see the excited faces of British sailors evidently hugely enjoying the discomfiture of the enemy, who had a dozen guards nervously fingering their guns surrounding the huts. They faced inwards and held their submachine guns at the ready, resting on their right hips. The strains of ‘Rule, Britannia!’ which roared out from the huts added to the general confusion.

  But already the hubbub was dying down and there was no movement or sound from Jan, lying hidden in the scrub. Time was slipping away fast and Peter would have to move quickly, for all too soon the party of Germans would be returning from the clifftop. He crawled to the top of the wall and as he looked down a shadow slid to the rope.