Andrew Williams - The Interrogator

Kapitän zur See Jürgen Mohr glanced at the Prayer Book in the shaking hands of the clergyman, then down to the coffin at his feet, draped in the white ensign of the Royal Navy. It was a pity the British would not permit them to use their own battle flag. Still, they had agreed to bury August Heine with full military honours. He would have been gratified to know that his commander and comrades were going to these lengths after such an unseemly end. It was three weeks since they had cut him down from the washroom pipe, tired weeks of questions and recriminations. The Military Police had been unpleasant but reassuringly incompetent.

The priest finished the psalm and handed the Prayer Book to a village youth in a grubby surplice, then took a step back from the grave and nodded to the camp commander. Major Ronald Benson cleared his throat — German was a trial: ‘I would like to express my deep sadness and regret at the passing of a brave young man, a sadness we all feel at Number One Stapley. We stand here — British and German side by side — united in mourning for Leutnant Heine, and together we remember his family in our prayers.’

Benson paused to look across at Mohr: ‘I would like to invite Leutnant Heine’s commanding officer to say a few words.’

Mohr had prepared his few words, a short speech about loyalty, the comradeship of the boat, honour, but standing at the grave, his shoes heavy with earth, those sentiments seemed trite and careless. He wanted to turn and walk away, to be alone. And yet what else was there? He had brought his own officers from the U-112 ; Fischer was there with his men and there were one or two others, fifteen prisoners altogether. They were all looking at him, expecting him to say something in praise of Heine’s life and to make sense of his death. Dietrich was standing at his right hand, his head bowed in a pretence of prayer, and beside him Schmidt, the curly-haired second officer of the 500 . To their right, he could see Bruns, his own navigator. These were the men to speak of sacrifice and loyalty, their faith in Germany unshakable, ruthless in its service.

When he spoke, his voice was as strong as it should be: ‘Men of the U-boat arm. Our comrade, Leutnant Heine, has fallen and is to be buried here in foreign soil. He was no less a casualty of this war than his brothers who have died at sea. His heart was always that of a true German, loyal to his Fatherland and to his Führer. We honour his sacrifice and we salute him now, confident that the victory he desired above all will come soon.’

And those empty, meaningless words were all Mohr could think of to say. Fortunately, he was relieved of any further obligation by Major Benson, who had clearly heard quite enough about a German victory.

‘All right, get on with it, Vicar.’

Four British soldiers stepped smartly forward to carefully fold the white ensign, then they took up positions on either side of the grave.

Man that is born of woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery…

The plain pine coffin began to disappear a few gentle inches at a time. It seemed to Mohr that no one was greatly affected, there were no tears. Those who might have cried over the body of August Heine did not even know he was dead.

Thou knowest, Lord, the secrets of our hearts…

It was a shame the British were not able to find a Lutheran pastor but he did not object to the words of the English Prayer Book. The dead man would not have understood them in any case. The coffin reached the bottom of the muddy trench and the soldiers stood to attention, the ropes still taut in their hands. Benson gave the order and the guard of honour stepped forward with rifles at the ready. Gunfire rang out around the churchyard and a baby by the wall began to wail; a second ragged volley followed, and then a third and sharp cordite smoke drifted across the grave. Mohr could taste it in his mouth. He bent to pick up a handful of earth.

…earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust…

It rattled and bounced on the coffin lid. The others stepped forward in their turn, hands stained by the earth from the grave: Gretschel, the 112 ’s first officer, Koch and Bruns and young Bischoff, the midshipman, then Fischer and his men. The last to reach for a handful of soil was the propaganda reporter, Helmut Lange. Mohr watched him standing there, squeezing it hard in his fist, forcing the dirt through his fingers. He hovered at the muddy lip of the grave, his face frozen in some sort of trance. And the seconds began to slip away. Major Benson cleared his throat pointedly and the priest laid a hand on Lange’s arm. He shook it free. Was Lange losing his mind? It was too late for the dead man’s mercy.

‘Come on there.’

The old priest tried to comfort him again. Someone coughed uneasily, heads were down and Mohr could sense the men closest to him shuffling from one foot to another. Lange was embarrassing them all.

‘Leutnant Lange.’ Mohr spoke his name firmly.

Lange looked up at last and slowly turned his head towards them. And Mohr could see that his dark eyes were cloudy and distant, his cheeks stained with tears. So there was someone there to weep after all. Then Lange shuddered a little and closed his eyes. And when he opened them again it was plain to Mohr that he was with them once more. It was the face of a different man, no longer frozen but alive. And it was full of contempt and fear and loathing.

Lange’s fistful of earth clattered on to the coffin lid with disturbing force. There were astonished gasps from those watching at the churchyard wall. Mohr stepped forward at once and took him firmly by the arm:

‘Leutnant Lange. Please.’ And he turned to whisper to Fischer: ‘Hold him.’

Major Benson nodded anxiously to the priest.

…for that it hath pleased thee to deliver this our brother out of the miseries of this sinful world…

And it was over in minutes. The priest closed his prayer book and stood back from the grave. Mohr breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps that was an end to the matter and they could bury the truth with Heine in this quiet country churchyard. He would have to speak to the propaganda reporter again. Lange had made an exhibition of himself and that was dangerous. Fischer was leading him away.

‘Kapitän Mohr, if you and your men would make your way to the truck.’ Benson was beside him with the soldiers of the honour guard. It was an end to the brotherhood of arms.

‘Certainly, Major.’

A couple of squaddies were resting on spades beneath the east window of the church, their sleeves rolled up ready. With the last of the mourners they would begin shovelling and scraping the earth back into the grave, beating it down hard with their spades. At their feet was a simple wooden cross with Heine’s full name and rank painted carefully in black Gothic script. For a time it would look strange among the grey lichen-covered stones but Heine’s name would be lost within ten Lakeland winters and the cross would rot and fall within ten more.

The old priest was waiting at the gate to shake Mohr’s hand and say a few words. Major Benson and his men were standing a little beyond it at the tailgate of the covered lorry that would take them back to the camp. Most of his men were already inside but he was in no hurry join them. Young faces bobbed up at the wall to peer at him and giggle but Mohr did not mind; it was refreshing, he felt a sort of freedom in the churchyard. A car horn sounded a short distance away. A military Humber was edging on to the muddy verge to pass a tractor which a farmer had parked carelessly in the lane.

‘I’m sorry about your young lieutenant.’ The priest’s handshake was limp and cold, his face a liverish white, the ghostly colour of a U-boat engineer after weeks without natural light. ‘He was so far from home.’