The Last Wolf (24 page)

Even so, each time Reinhard returned from a patrol, another stack of fan letters was waiting for him. The writers didn't seem to have heard that the ‘Happy Time' was over, probably because the National Socialist propaganda machine had neglected to tell them so. They had quite forgotten to mention that the chances of a U-boat coming back safely from a patrol were getting smaller and smaller and smaller.

Of course, boats had advanced. New and larger types were being built, torpedoes improved, and there was a new invention which had been fitted to Reinhard's boat. It was no longer necessary to surface to recharge the batteries because an air intake called a Schnorchel could be raised above the surface and a U-boat could now use its diesel engines under water. They could stay submerged until they ran out of fuel, and the tip of the Snort was very hard for the enemy to pick up on radar. But, as Reinhard soon discovered, there were disadvantages. The diesels made too much noise for the hydrophones to be used, which meant that the periscope had to be raised as well to keep watch if they were not to be blind as well as deaf to the enemy's approach. Worse, the Schnorchel mast tip might be invisible on radar but it left a tell-tale trail in the water, as well as a plume of steam, which could be spotted by a sharp-eyed lookout on a passing enemy warship. Even worse, in rough weather, a valve in the head of the Snort would close, keeping out the sea, and the diesels would take air from the boat's interior instead. An easy way to asphyxiate the crew. And, worst of all, the Snort had taken away their freedom to chase and attack enemy ships. Their speed was now too slow for cunning manoeuvres; a target had to come conveniently within range of the torpedo tubes. The lean and hungry wolves had been reduced to plodding hounds.

Reinhard met Bruno by arrangement in Paris when their leaves happened to coincide. They had dinner at a restaurant where it was hard to believe that a war was going on at all. Chic women, fine food and wine, polished silver and sparkling crystal, obsequious waiters . . . What a bitter irony, Reinhard thought, that an occupied city should somehow have escaped the ravages of war suffered by the cities of its occupiers. Hamburg, Cologne, Kassel, Frankfurt, Augsburg, Berlin . . . all bombed into ruins, thousands of their inhabitants dead, maimed, homeless and destitute.

He listened to his brother extolling the virtues of his Messerschmitt 109. About the ease with which his squadron could pick off the American bombers lumbering along so slowly in their daylight box formations.

‘We fly straight through the middle of them and they can't do a damn thing about it. They don't know where we'll be coming from next.'

He'd pulled the same sort of trick himself with the convoys and it could be very effective. ‘But be careful, Bruno. They'll work it out in the end.'

‘They haven't so far. When their fighter escorts have to turn back, they're left waddling along like ducks. That's when we arrive on the scene, of course. We make sure we time it just right.'

It reminded Reinhard of the good old ‘Happy Time' when U-boats had pounced on the convoys in the mid-Atlantic once they were out of the protective reach of Allied aircraft. The Americans had finally come up with a long-range plane to bridge that fatal gap, and they'd probably do the same again for their bombers. Sooner or later, and probably sooner, a brand new plane would appear that would be able to escort the American bombers all the way to their target and back again.

But his brother was the eternal optimist. The happy-go-lucky fighter boy with his head in the clouds and with a good deal less experience of fighting the war.

There was no point in spoiling a good dinner by pointing out some grim facts. Among them, that the North Atlantic convoy ships were now loaded to the gunnels with troops and weapons, as well as food and materials. It was obvious that the Allies were planning another landing, not in Italy this time, but in France, to be launched from somewhere in England. And what's more, their supply ships were getting through.

On a personal level, another troubling fact had occurred to him. Apart from the thin and bitter Aunt Ursula in Munich, he and Bruno had no other close relatives still alive. If – or rather
when
– he failed to return from a patrol, Bruno would be left completely alone. If the war was lost, he knew that Bruno would not take easily to defeat and humiliation and a long captivity – any more than Reinhard would himself.

‘Christ, take a look at her!' Bruno's head had swivelled towards the restaurant entrance and the girl who was standing there alone – fur jacket, half-veiled hat, blonde curls, full lips painted a glistening scarlet.

The head waiter had hurried over to her and a conversation was ensuing between them – much shrugging of his shoulders, hands outspread on each side to demonstrate the full tables, the girl pouting, the head waiter ushering her towards the door.

Bruno was on his feet. ‘We can't let that happen, can we?'

Reinhard sighed. ‘No, of course not.'

He would far sooner have spent the evening talking alone with his brother; it could be their last chance.

‘Perhaps she has a friend.'

‘I'm quite sure that she does.'

He watched his brother make his way over to the girl and bow and click his heels. The scarlet lips curved in a dazzling smile and she accompanied Bruno back to their table. He rose to his feet politely.

Her name was Claudette and she did indeed have a friend, who arrived five minutes later. The friend, Suzanne, was altogether quieter. She spoke in a low voice, wore little make-up and he noticed that though her clothes were stylish, they had been made-over from older and less fashionable garments. Her dress had been given a lower neckline, a tighter bodice, a shorter hem; her hat a new ribbon, and her stockings had been carefully darned. His French wasn't as good as his English but it was reasonable – which was fortunate, since she spoke no German.

He learned almost nothing about Suzanne during the meal, other than that she lived in some suburb of Paris, and though she asked a few questions of him, she seemed uninterested in the answers. Compared with Claudette, she was an amateur at the game and he wondered how she had become involved in the first place. He would have found her very dull but once or twice, when she had glanced at him, he had seen a flash of hatred in her eyes, which was intriguing.

At the end of the food and the wine, the cigarettes and the final brandies, Bruno went off with Claudette to some apartment. He was drunk, of course, but not so drunk that he would be incapable of enjoying the French girl or, Reinhard hoped, of guarding his wallet. He said goodbye to his brother, thumped him on the back and watched him go. He was not to know then that he would never see him again. That within a month Bruno would be shot down over the North Sea by American bombers and killed.

The other girl said, ‘I can see that you are very fond of your brother.'

He didn't answer. He was not prepared to discuss his feelings with her. They were none of her business, or her concern. He took her back to his hotel room. She was fair game, after all. The dinner had cost a small fortune and both girls had eaten and drunk plenty. He had noticed this one, Suzanne, dropping petits fours surreptitiously into her handbag – sugar-coated grapes and cherries, miniature fruits made of coloured marzipan, little biscuits. Claudette had eaten one after the other, feeding them into her luscious mouth, but this one had squirreled them away.

He was neither kind nor considerate with her; in fact, he was brutal and, afterwards, he apologized.

‘It's all right,' she said. ‘I'm used to it. Do you have a cigarette, please?'

He lit one for her and another for himself.

‘Lucky Strikes,' she said. ‘What a treat! Where did you get them?'

‘On the street. I believe they originally belonged to American airmen, now our prisoners-of-war.' He lay back on the pillow, drew on his cigarette, ‘Why do this? You're not the type.'

‘For food. For money, too. I have a four-year-old daughter; she must eat and have clothes to keep her warm, somewhere to live.'

‘Parisians don't seem to be exactly starving or in rags.'

‘You only see what we want you to see and pay through the nose for – black-market food, expensive wine, beautiful women, cigarettes . . . Paris, as you Germans always imagine it to be. But it's not like that any more – not since you came. Now, we survive as best we can and make as much use of our conquerors as possible.'

He frowned. He could believe most of it.

‘The petits fours that you hid in your handbag – were they for your daughter?'

‘Yes. I take treats for her whenever it's possible.'

‘Where is your husband?'

‘He was a soldier. You killed him when you invaded France.'

‘Then I can understand why you hate us so much.'

‘How do you know that I do?'

‘It shows in your eyes.'

She blew smoke towards the ceiling. ‘I don't hate all Germans. Just most of them.'

‘What about your friend, Claudette?'

‘She quite likes them. So long as they pay well.' She turned her head towards him. ‘I could stay for longer, if you like.'

When she left, he gave her a very generous sum of French francs, and handed her the rest of the Lucky Strikes. She stowed both neatly in her handbag and snapped the clasp shut.

At the door, she paused for a moment, looking at him over her shoulder. ‘You know, I would have done it for nothing with you.'

In April, Stroma was sent on an officers' course. She emerged from it with the rank of Third Officer, as well as the infinitely nicer officer's uniform of fine cloth, a double row of brass buttons on the jacket, a ring round each sleeve and, most desirable of all, a tricorne hat.

She was posted back to Western Approaches and the Ops Room – this time as Plotting Officer in charge of a watch of four Wren ratings. She was responsible not only for the table plots, but also for the gigantic wall map which showed the position of any ship or convoy or reported U-boat in the whole of the North Atlantic. The ship markers were moved across the wall according to the speed of the slowest ship in the convoy. Convoys carrying troops and special cargoes went fast; fastest of all were the Monsters – the converted luxury liners which sailed alone: the
Queen Mary
, the
Queen Elizabeth
, the
Mauretania
and the
Acquitania
. No U-boat had ever caught them and fewer and fewer U-boats remained to prey on the convoys.

As the ships unloaded at Liverpool, the men and weapons that they had carried across the ocean were sent on by lorry, train and plane. Rumours that the Allies would soon be landing in France spread.

Hamish had been given command of a new Flower-class corvette – HMS
Foxglove
, which he admitted was a slight improvement on
Buttercup
. Stroma had only seen him once during the past eight months, when they had met briefly at the same gloomy hotel bar as before, with the same bomb-damaged ceiling and the same broken windows. He was a lieutenant commander now, with more gold on his sleeve; he looked much older than twenty-two and frighteningly responsible.

‘Whatever you lot have been doing down in that bunker of yours,' he said, ‘it's been working. We've finally got those bloody U-boats beaten hollow. There are hardly any of the buggers left.'

‘I know.'

He looked at her with uncustomary respect. ‘Yes, I suppose you do. You'll have seen it all happening. You've come a long way since the days when you used to feel sorry for the fish we caught.'

‘I think I'd still want them to get away.'

He shook his head in mock despair. ‘Hopeless. By the way, I've got some good news. I'm engaged.'

‘Engaged?'

‘To be married, you idiot. She's a Wren – a coder in Plymouth. We met a few months ago, by chance. Her name's Alice.'

He went on talking about Alice, and how marvellous she was.

‘I'm so glad for you, Hamish,' she said. ‘When will you get married?'

‘Not till after the war, obviously, so it won't be for a while. In Dorset, I suppose. That's where her home is, near Sherborne. She rather wants us to get married in the abbey.'

‘You could take her to Craigmore for the honeymoon.'

He frowned. ‘Not sure she'd care for it that much. Any more than Mother. You know how wet and cold it can be up there. We're used to it, of course – practically born to it. But Craigmore's pretty uncivilized. It's not everybody's idea of bliss, let's face it.'

It's mine
, she thought,
and I always thought it was his too
.
All those wonderful times we had – fishing and sailing and swimming, the wild ponies, the otters and the seals and the birds, beachcombing and the rock pools at low tide
. . .
all of it.

‘What about you?' Hamish said. ‘I bet you've been fielding a few marriage proposals.'

‘Oh, nothing serious.'

There had been three and one of them had been Tom Lewis.

‘Well, don't rush into anything.'

‘I won't.'

Easy to say that, but turning them down had been awful. Especially awful with Tom. She should have realized much sooner how he felt – before he asked her to marry him.

‘Will you think about it?' he'd said. ‘Give it some time.'

‘There's honestly no point, Tom,' she'd answered. ‘I'm so sorry. I like you very much, but that's not enough, is it?'

He'd tried to make a joke out of it, to hide his disappointment. ‘You never know, the scales could fall from your eyes one day, and you'll suddenly realize what an absolutely wonderful chap I am.'

‘I know that already.'

‘Well, then . . .'

‘But I can't marry you, Tom. I'm not in love with you.'

‘Is there someone else?' he'd asked. ‘None of my business, of course, but just for the record.'