The Interrogator (23 page)

Camp Number One for German officers. On their first night, they had leapt from a lorry on to a loose stone carriageway in front of an imposing Edwardian mansion. A cool breeze was shaking the tops of the tall pines beyond the wire, and by the low moon they could see the valley falling away from them, its slopes roughly chequered with drystone walls. The guards had hurried them into a panelled entrance hall with large mullioned windows, then up a fine carved oak staircase to bed.

A few days later, Lange had found an old newspaper in the common room in which their prison camp was described as ‘the U-boat Hotel’. The paper’s correspondent grumbled about the library and the grand piano in the old billiard room, that some of the rooms had log fires and the Germans were permitted to read newspapers and listen to the BBC. A Member of Parliament had promised to raise the matter with the War Office. But for all that its walls were panelled and papered and its windows lead-paned, it was a prison much like any other: two hundred men behind two security fences and a belt of barbed wire, roll calls, lights-out, camp searches and the discipline of their own Ältestenrat.

‘Are you ready, Herr Leutnant?’

‘Yes.’

Lange followed Bruns out of the room without closing the door behind him. He was expecting the Ältestenrat to call him and he had tried to prepare himself. Mohr’s hand planted firmly against his chest pressed upon him still, as did the recollection of those hard little wrinkles at the corners of his mouth, the contemptuous stare. On Day One Lange had heard that Mohr had joined ‘the council of the eldest’. It was the correct order of things. The council was made up of the three most senior officers and Mohr was now the most senior. On Day Two he learnt that there was to be an investigation. The Ältestenrat would gather intelligence on British interrogation techniques and some officers would be asked to give evidence. By the following day the camp knew it would be about much more.

Lange had been preparing the camp’s daily news digest when the
second officer of his own U-boat, the
500
, had fluttered into the room like a coal-black crow. Schmidt was a thick-set youth with metallic blue eyes and bad skin, beneath which beat a heart full of National Socialist zeal. He perched on the edge of his bed and lit a cigarette:

‘Anything in the British papers about our armies?’

The whole camp was hungry for news. It was three weeks since the start of the invasion of the Soviet Union and pride and confidence were high. But Lange had found nothing of importance.

‘Well, I have some news for you,’ Schmidt had whispered smugly, ‘but not for the digest.’

There was a rumour that someone in the camp was giving intelligence to the British.

‘The Ältestenrat is sure he’s a naval officer. Can you imagine what will happen if it is true?’ Schmidt had laughed, a grating and mirthless laugh.

Bruns led him down the corridor and up the narrow wooden back staircase to a bedroom under the eaves.

‘Wait here, please.’

It was small but comfortable with just two camp beds, necessary furniture and a fine view of the valley below. The camp’s senior officers had elected for the privacy of the servants’ quarters at the top of the house. Lange sat at the desk beneath the window and tried to look at ease. The waiting, the wild thoughts, the tight little knot in the pit of the stomach were so familiar; if anything, the anxiety was more acute than it had been when he was questioned by the British. To be interrogated and judged by your comrades and perhaps found wanting, such a thing was unthinkable. He could hear Bruns speaking in a low voice to someone in the corridor.

On his fourth day in the camp the
U-112
’s engineer had found him in the exercise yard. Lange was watching a muddy game of football, a wet mist beading his wool jacket. Then August Heine had touched his elbow.

‘May I speak to you, Helmut?’ His voice was strained and unhappy.

It was the first time they had spoken since they had been held together at Trent Park. Heine had behaved rather boorishly since then, cutting him dead more than once.

‘Is something the matter?’ Lange had asked coldly. It was plain enough that there was from the alarm in the engineer’s chestnut eyes.

‘Please, I must talk to you.’

Then he had turned and walked away and Lange had followed, edging along the wire towards the house in silence. After casting about to be sure there was no one close by, Heine stopped beneath a dripping oak and began fumbling for a cigarette.

‘Well?’ Lange asked impatiently. Heine was making him feel nervous, twitching and turning like a ferret in a cage.

‘Do you think he knows?’ His face was drawn and pale with misery.

‘Who?’

‘The Kapitän.’

‘Knows what?’

‘About me.’

Heavy drops of rain pattered through the canopy above, seeping into Lange’s jacket and running like tears down Heine’s face. It smelled of autumn already. Lange remembered wondering if the engineer was suffering from barbed-wire sickness. There was talk of men breaking after only weeks. The cell’s four walls, the grunts and moans of other prisoners in the night, footsteps, bright lights and the anguish of failure that chip-chipped away at the spirit.

‘Have you seen the doctor?’

‘Why?’ Heine had stared for a few puzzled seconds at Lange, then brushed the question aside: ‘They asked me about the Kapitän, his time at headquarters. The British asked me. They heard us speaking together.’

‘But you told them nothing?’

‘No,’ said Heine quickly. His tortured face said ‘yes’. That such a dedicated man, proud of his small part in the Reich’s great enterprise, should be so very, very afraid. As Lange sat there in the bedroom at the top of the house, the memory of it made him feel tired and stale.

‘Say nothing. I will say nothing. Say only that you did your duty;’ that was the advice he had given Heine – and a reassuring squeeze.

Bruns was at the door again and behind him a Luftwaffe lieutenant Lange did not recognise, his shoulders square and hard.

‘This way,’ and Bruns stepped back to allow Lange past.

There were three rooms on the corridor and the smallest belonged to Kapitän zur See Jürgen Mohr. He was the only prisoner who was not obliged to share. Bruns tapped gently at his door.

‘Yes, come in.’ Mohr spoke with the quiet assurance of those who are used to being obeyed without question. He was sitting at a table, with the light from the only window behind him, and on the bed to his right was Fischer, the commander of the
U-500
. A Luftwaffe major he knew to be Brand was standing a little apart at the window, a cigarette smoking in his hand. Lange took two short strides to the table and snapped smartly to attention.

‘Sit down, Leutnant Lange.’

Mohr nodded at the low chair opposite him. As well as being smaller than the others, his room was also a little more impersonal. There were three or four books beside Mohr’s bed and a small, unframed picture of a young woman with indecently large eyes and a bright smile. Lange was surprised to see it there.

Mohr’s face was as stiff and empty as a plaster saint’s. ‘Kapitänleutnant Fischer says your war patrol with him was your first?’

‘Yes, Herr Kapitän.’

‘But you have carried out other reporting assignments?’

‘Yes, Herr Kapitän.’

Lange wondered if his composure sounded exaggerated. The chair felt small and hard. He was struggling to sit upright.

He watched as Mohr leant across the table with his chin in his right hand and his eyes cast down in thought. His hairline was receding a little and he was greying at the temples. The bed squeaked as Fischer adjusted his weight and at the window there was a burst of blackbird song. It had stopped raining and the sun was twinkling through the small leaded panes. After an uncomfortable silence Mohr raised his head a little and stared at him. His eyes were an impenetrable brown and there was the faintest of smiles on his lips – it was not a pleasant one.

‘Tell me about your assignments.’

What was there to tell? Christmas with the U-boat heroes, submarines in and submarines out, in the Channel with the
Schnellboote
and photographs and interviews with Admiral Dönitz.

‘You spoke to the Admiral at headquarters?’

Lange looked down at his hands. His fingers felt hot and thick and awkward. It was a simple question simply put and not a muscle had moved in Mohr’s face but he knew at once, and with a certainty that chilled him to the marrow, why he was being asked it. He swallowed hard:

‘U-boat Headquarters, yes.’

He could feel Mohr’s eyes on him and thoughts and fears crowded one upon another.

‘You look a little uncomfortable, Lange.’

With an effort he looked up at Mohr: ‘No, Herr Kapitän, thank you.’

‘You should be.’

He tried to concentrate on a crack in one of the leaded panes behind Mohr’s left shoulder. The Luftwaffe major was still at the window, an expression of barely disguised contempt on his heavy face.

‘Yes, you have met Admiral Dönitz.’ Mohr glanced down at a sheet of paper on the table in front of him,’ ‘three or four times.’ He stared at Lange for a moment, then, turning to the paper again, he ran his finger halfway down: ‘The last time was a few months ago and he recognised you and shook your hand. Is that correct?’

It was correct and Kapitän zur See Jürgen Mohr knew it was correct. August Heine had obviously remembered their conversation well. Of course he would remember it clearly – it was the afternoon he had made his mistake. There had been only four cigarettes left in Lange’s packet and he had been decent enough to give the greasy little bastard one. Was Heine trying to protect himself? He was terrified of Mohr. Had he told him everything? This time he had been interrogated by someone he was required to answer. Perhaps he had panicked and thrown someone else to the Ältestenrat?

‘Is that correct, Lange?’ Mohr’s high-pitched voice was cool and steady and full of quiet menace.

‘Yes. Yes, Herr Kapitän.’

‘What was in the note you wrote to the British lieutenant –
Lieutenant Lindsay?’ The question was rattled out with a speed that demanded an instant answer.

‘I . . . I thanked him for his kindness, Herr Kapitän,’ Lange stammered. ‘He saved my life.’

‘Every word, I want every word?’

‘It was in English, something like thank you for helping me and please say “thank you” to your girlfriend.’

‘His girlfriend?’

‘Yes.’

And then another question and another, more questions, relentless like a dark cat’s-paw ruffling the ocean on a summer day with the promise of a change for the worse. Lange had said nothing to Lindsay he should regret. And yet he felt guilty. He must be guilty. It was in the room with him. He could see it in Mohr’s suspicious eyes and feel it in the aggressive silence of the others. Guilty of befriending an enemy.

Lange was sitting on the edge of his bed staring at his worn brown leather shoes when his old commander, Fischer, found him later. The ‘interview’ with the Ältestenrat had lasted an hour and ended with a promise of more questions to come. It had left him drained and careless and desperate to be alone. It was late evening now and his room-mates were downstairs, either in the library or the old billiard room. Perhaps they were listening to the news digest he had prepared for that day or at the piano singing hearty U-boat songs. Night was drawing in quickly with the next front approaching from the west and the room was falling into shadow. Fischer did not switch on the light.

‘You’re a fool.’

Lange sprang to his feet and turned smartly towards him. The commander of the
U-500
was a little taller and a little older, with a heavy, baggy face high in colour and the small moist blood-shot eyes of a drinker. He was wearing a worn loose-fitting brown suit that reeked of stale cigarette smoke. In the four weeks Lange had spent with the crew of the
500
he had seen Fischer drunk and incapable more than once. He had also seen and admired his cool leadership under fire. Fischer was rough but fair.

‘Do you know what will happen to anyone who has given intelligence to the enemy?’

Lange was surprised by the note of concern in his voice. He turned and gently pulled the door to, then nodded to indicate that Lange should join him on the bed.

‘I like you, Lange, or I used to. But you’ve been fraternising with the enemy – Kapitän Mohr thinks you are guilty of much more. Look, I want to help you. Perhaps you were tricked by this British interrogator into giving something away. It is an easy mistake, they are very clever.’

Fischer paused, then began slapping the pockets of his jacket: ‘Shit. Do you have one?’

Lange offered him a cigarette. He lit it, then planted it in the corner of his mouth. ‘Kapitän Mohr wants to know if you were tricked. He must know. There is a secret of the first importance to the Reich that he has to protect. Telling him the truth is the best way of proving your loyalty now.’

‘I told Herr Kapitän Mohr everything we spoke of. There was nothing more.’

Fischer flicked his cigarette into the corner of the room in exasperation. ‘Look, Lange, believe me, I am doing you a favour. There are some ruthless cunts in this camp who would welcome a chance to prove their loyalty to the Führer in any way the Ältestenrat asks them to. The British won’t protect you, they don’t care. Mohr thinks you’re hiding something from him – if you are, then tell him at once before he forces it from you. Understand?’

Fischer stared at Lange until he met his gaze with a slight nod: ‘Believe me, Lange, that is good advice. Tell him everything.’

30

2nd Unterseebootsflotille
Keroman Base
Lorient

T

he security barrier lifted at last and the black Citroen lurched forward, its engine roaring impatiently as the driver searched for the gears. Deep ruts had been cut in the loose gravel track and the car bumped awkwardly across the construction site, a cloud of summer dust in its wake. Smoke was billowing from a vast rectangular trench a few metres from the track and drifting lazily across the hot white sky. Men and machines were busy at its edge, tearing at the ground as if intent on cutting a rough finger of land from the rest of Lorient. The driver of the Citroen braked hard for a column of French labourers who showed no inclination to step aside. Handkerchief pressed to nose and mouth, Leutnant Erich Radke gazed impatiently from the back seat at their sullen faces and through them to where the Reich’s engineers were marking out the ground for a vast new U-boat bunker.