Andrew Williams - The Interrogator

Mohr had been standing in the eighteenth-century hall where Nelson’s captains had waited on the Lords of the Admiralty. When he was in London ten years earlier, he had walked down Whitehall to stop and stare through the white stone screen at the front, surprised by the modesty of the building. They had not permitted him to wear uniform to visit the First Sea Lord but had found him a dark suit that fitted well enough, and he felt honoured to be there. Then a member of Admiral Pound’s Staff had told him ever so politely that they had sunk the Bismarck . The pride of the German Navy just so much broken flotsam and two thousand men lost.

The Staff officer led him in a trance up the staircase into the oak-panelled Boardroom to take tea with Admiral Pound. It was a very British affair. Sir Dudley made only a brief reference to the Bismarck , a shake of the head, regret for the loss of so much life, as if passing on condolences for the death of a respected friend. He asked many questions about U-boats and Admiral Dönitz but did not seem concerned when Mohr declined to answer them. It struck Mohr as strange that the man charged with protecting Great Britain’s ships should take such a dispassionate interest in their destruction. Then Admiral Pound asked him to describe the sinking of his own U-boat and, judging it to be of little importance, he gave him a short, matter-of-fact account.

There at the Admiral’s splendid table, polished to perfection, beneath those elegant oak pillars, he said nothing of the fear or the agony of waiting, the angry kaleidoscope of sights and sounds that was never far from the front of his mind. Even now, sliding about the car’s leather seat, he could imagine the soft splash, splash of depth charges and the shriek of steel as the 112 shuddered and plunged towards destruction. ‘Give it air, give it air,’ he had shouted into the darkness, and they had managed to hold the boat. Then the thrash of propellers, the splash of more charges and detonations that rolled endlessly through the depths. And when the light was restored, grim faces, terrified faces, valves thrown to Open, water above the deck plates — they were too deep for the bilge pumps — and the boat slipping deeper still, its hull groaning and contracting under the pressure. That was the agony of waiting. They had all felt it — stiff and breathless, the air hot with the smell of oil and piss and battery gas. He had experienced it many times but the danger had always passed with a swish of retreating propellers.

‘But my luck ran out,’ he told Admiral Pound with an insincere little smile that the First Sea Lord returned. In the end he had forced the boat to the surface long enough to save the crew. At least he had saved the crew.

The car turned right off the Cockfosters Road and through the gates, and after a brief exchange between the driver and a guard it was soon bumping its way down the long carriageway to Trent Park. The warm sun was shining through the trees, dappling Mohr’s suit and the red leather seat. He was still a prisoner and soon he would be interrogated again, and yet this was a sort of peace.

‘We’re back, sir,’ said the young officer from the front.

The car turned left past the stable block and along the wire fence towards the front of the house.

Two thousand men dead. Admiral Dönitz had taught him that honour lay in duty and the harshest will to win. He had believed it to be the meaning in his life, his Weltanschauung . But in the silence of his prison room, he was beginning to wonder what would be left when the victory was won and the slogans no longer had meaning. Who would he be?

From the window of Interrogation Room Two, Lindsay watched the black Humber Snipe cruise slowly down the drive and come to a halt at the security gate. A sergeant stepped smartly up to the car, peered at the passengers, then turned and waved to his men. The gate opened and the car crept across the forecourt, where the union flag was picked out in pink and white stones.

‘Mohr’s back.’

There was the screech of a chair being pushed hurriedly away and a moment later he sensed Samuels at his shoulder.

‘A nice suit. Do you think the Division found him that?’

Escort in tow, Mohr was led from the car and into the porch.

‘I’ve got you what you want.’

Lindsay turned to look at him: ‘Charlie?’

Samuels walked back to the table and picked up his bible: ‘Poor Brand, quite a civilised German.’ He flicked through his notes until he found the correct page then began to read:

Funkobergefreiter Heinz Brand. Born Hamburg 1922. Joined Kriegsmarine 1938. Trained wireless school Glückstadt, wireless intelligence Flensburg…

‘Yes, yes,’ Lindsay snapped, ‘but what about the U-112 ?’

‘All right, you were right,’ sighed Samuels as if it were painful to admit. ‘It was his first war patrol in a U-boat.’

Brand had served as a wireless operator on board an Atlantic raider called the Pinguin that preyed on British and Empire ships sailing outside the protection of a convoy. In January, he had transferred to the U-boat arm and a month later sailed out of Lorient on the 112 : ‘And he confirmed that the other wireless operator, Henning, was a new boy too. That’s the good news. The bad news — he wouldn’t tell me why they joined the 112 .’

‘Well done, Charlie, well done.’

Samuels looked at Lindsay as if he had taken leave of his senses: ‘Where does this take us?’

Lindsay turned back to the window. A green bus was parked on the forecourt now and a motley collection of U-boat prisoners was emptying out of it. The guards were encouraging them none too gently down steps into the basement of the building, where they would be issued with soap and fresh clothes.

‘This was the first war patrol south to African waters,’ he muttered. His mind was racing with new questions and possibilities. Dönitz chose a senior Staff officer. August Heine had described him as ‘one of the six’. Capable, experienced, Mohr was just the sort of commander you would want if you were going to try something new.

‘The first south,’ he said again for Samuels’ benefit.

‘But there were three other U-boats, and it doesn’t explain why the wireless operators would need to speak English.’

‘And Mohr speaks perfect English.’

Reaching into his jacket, Lindsay took out his cigarettes, tapped one gently on the top of his silver case and lit it. The tobacco hissed as he filled his lungs with the bitter smoke. He stood there, head bent a little, cigarette poised close to his lips, face wrinkled with concentration.

‘Look, Douglas, let’s…’

‘No, Charlie, please, just…’

He raised a hand to silence him. The seconds slipped by. The answer was dancing like a shadow through his mind, tantalisingly close. It was something quite obvious. He closed his eyes — English, English, the wireless operators speak English — a constant beat in the darkness. And then it came to him: ‘How bloody stupid of us. How stupid.’

‘Well?’ Samuels asked impatiently.

‘Isn’t it obvious? The wireless operators were reading our signals. Why else would they need to speak English?’

‘Steady,’ and as if to make his point Samuels reached out and placed his hand on Lindsay’s arm. ‘We don’t know if the wireless operators speak English well enough for that and even if they do, all our signals are in code. They would need to…’ He stopped suddenly to scrutinise Lindsay’s face, ‘…ah, I see. I see. Douglas, you’re racing ahead of yourself.’

‘No, Charlie, listen. There are other things…’ Lindsay hesitated. It was neither the time nor the place to talk of his visit to Winn at the Citadel.