Andrew Williams - The Interrogator

‘Get those valves tightened at once. Air to the tanks. Give her air.’

‘Herr Kap’tän, there’s too much water in the for’ard bilges.’

‘230 metres…’ The crew could hear the panic in Leutnant Koch’s voice. Was this the end? If the 112 slipped much further it would be crushed under the pressure like an empty tin can. The stern and bow planes were in the surface position but the boat was still drifting to the ocean floor.

‘Come on, give it air.’

‘240 metres…’

They were deeper than the maximum dive depth now and still sinking. All heads for’ard of the control room were turned in Mohr’s direction; the petty officers, the torpedo men and machinists, the radio operators and Braun the cook, so young, so frightened, breathless, silently pleading with him: ‘What now, Kap’tän, what now?’ And he knew there was only one thing he could do:

‘Prepare to surface.’

The boat seemed to heave a sigh as compressed air rushed into the ballast tanks. Three, four, five seconds… a desperate stillness. It had barely moved.

‘250 metres…’

Someone was muttering a prayer.

‘Give it more, Chief. More.’

The boat’s last gasp, a long steady hiss. And slowly, slowly its bow began to rise.

‘240 Herr Kap’tän… 230… 220…’

A small cheer from the torpedo room.

‘Silence.’

The 112 gathered speed, a giant steel bubble forcing its way to the surface.

That it should come to this after so long and on this most sensitive of missions. The British would be on them in minutes.

‘Breathing apparatus. Prepare to abandon ship.’

Gretschel was standing beside him holding a Tauchretter : ‘For you, Herr Kap’tän.’

‘What will Admiral Dönitz say, Gretschel?’

‘He’ll be sure we did our best, Herr Kap’tän.’ The first officer’s voice shook a little with emotion.

The 112 broke the surface bow first and settled down by the stern, water surging from its deck. Cold fresh salt air he could taste swept through the boat like a wind as Gretschel flung open the tower hatch. It was almost midnight and clear, the sea quite still but for the dark silhouette of the destroyer closing fast on the port side, cutting a clean white wave at her bow.

‘Enemy closing 055, a thousand metres, Herr Kap’tän.’

‘Prepare the weighted bag.’

The secret papers and the cipher machine must go over the side at once. The 112 was sinking rapidly by the stern but he had to be sure.

‘Out, out, out.’

In the worn, familiar faces at the foot of the tower the fear that even now that small ring of night sky above them might be snatched away, the boat sinking back, sealing them in their iron coffin. Mohr pushed his way through them to the radio room:

‘Ready.’

‘Yes, Herr Kap’tän.’ The chief radio operator pointed to two bags on the small table in front of him: ‘The Enigma ciphering machine in this one and the code books and mission orders in the other.’

‘Come with me,’ and he snatched up the bag with the mission orders. Climbing slowly through the darkness, the bag heavy at his chest, the sound of feet scuffling on the bridge above, and as his hand reached for the topmost rung a zing, zing, zing of bullets striking the tower. The destroyer was firing at them.

‘Over the side.’

And the crew began dropping from the deck into the ocean.

‘Scuttling charges set?’

‘Yes, yes,’ Heine shouted from below, panic ringing in his voice again.

‘Open the strainer and get out.’

Another bullet pinged against the tower. The destroyer was close enough for Mohr to hear the slow rattle of her heavy machine gun. Her captain could have no idea of the prize he was going to drag from the Atlantic. The engineer was at his side:

‘All right, you can join them.’

The little lights on the life vests of his men were rising and falling in the dark ocean, small groups clustered together, arms raised in supplication to the enemy. And the destroyer was edging closer, a beam of brilliant white light from a large lamp trained on the deck of the 112 . Mohr picked up the bag at his feet, checked the seal and its weight — good enough — and with a great sideways sweep of his arm flung it over the lip of the tower into the darkness. A small phosphorescent splash and the bag and its secrets sank out of sight, dropping thousands of metres to the ocean floor. Mohr smiled ruefully. If only it were that simple, if only it could end there with the secret of their mission lost fathoms down where no one would find it. If only…

Lindsay looked up from his pad with a deliberate smile and reached for his cigarettes.

‘Would you like another, Herr Leutnant?’ he asked in German. He slid the packet across the shabby wooden table to Helmut Lange who pounced on it like a man possessed: ‘Thank you.’

An angry-looking crack in his lip was making it uncomfortable to speak. About his right eye, the bruising was turning from ugly green to yellow and it wrinkled into a painful, mottled pattern when he smiled.

‘Why do you think my…’ Lindsay looked down at the packet of Players he was turning slowly in his hand, ‘my colleague thought you were a spy?’

‘I don’t know. I’m a journalist, a navy journalist.’

Lindsay nodded.

‘You believe me?’ His face was broadcasting relief.

‘Yes.’

It had been a mistake. They seemed to happen often. By some mysterious process the possibility that Leutnant zur See Lange was a spy became a probability the moment he was handed over to the Security Service — MI5. Spies had to be broken. Five had given the task to Major Cunningham, a prickly veteran of the Great War known for his ‘robust’ interrogation style.

‘I think the man you call your colleague wanted to kill me’, said Lange with feeling. ‘I prayed to the Virgin Mary that it would stop. Then you came.’

‘I just hope…’ Lindsay sighed and held his hand reflectively to his lips for a moment, ‘I just hope we can hold on to you, Herr Leutnant.’

The suggestion in his voice that this was by no means a foregone conclusion was not lost on Lange. Anxiety was written in thick lines across his brow: ‘But you can send me to join the rest of the crew now.’

‘First I must convince my colleague that I’m right about you and he’s wrong.’

‘I don’t know any secrets. Speak to the crew of the 500 — they will tell you.’ Lange was picking distractedly at the peeling varnish of the tabletop. He was a short man, muscular with close-cropped brown hair and a heavy shaving shadow that made him appear older than his twenty-three years. His round face was peculiarly expressive, almost guileless.

Lindsay opened the briefcase at his feet and took out a magazine with a photograph of a sinking ship on the cover. It was the German Navy’s Signal : ‘I read it as often as I can. Do you remember this one?’ He pushed it across the table to Lange. ‘There’s a piece on page five about “the disintegrating poison of Jewry”.’

Lange wriggled uncomfortably: ‘That was written in Berlin.’

‘I see. And are you worried about this Jewish “poison” too?’

‘I’m a reporter, I write about the Navy,’ said Lange defensively.

Lindsay stared at him for several seconds, the silence full of blackbird song. Shadows were dancing across the bare white walls of the interrogation room as the wind shook the branches of a large cedar growing close to the window. The officers of U-500 had described Lange as good-natured, religious, an unlikely ideologue and a Landratte — uncomfortable at sea. He knew no more about U-boats than he needed for a morale-boosting feature piece. But Lindsay sensed that with a little coaxing he would talk freely and a clever, inquisitive prisoner could be put to good use.