The Last Wolf (30 page)

After a while, she got up and went over to the open window. She stood staring at the grey-green sea and the white-flecked waves, and listening to the harsh and mocking mews of the gulls.

They had spent sixty days submerged. Sixty days without breathing fresh air or seeing daylight. No other way was possible if they wanted to avoid detection by the Allies. They looked like corpses, green and mouldy as the boat itself. The already-dead. When they were on watch, they moved stiff-jointedly about like robots, and when they were off-watch they collapsed on their bunks in a mindless stupor. Black fumes from over-pressured diesel exhaust valves rolled like fog through the boat, vital machinery parts kept failing and had somehow to be repaired, rubbish piled up in a stinking, maggoty heap, men lost their appetite, fell ill, came out in rashes and boils, were very close to breaking down. If Reinhard's crew had relied on him before to preserve their lives, they did so now for the will to live.

British warships were everywhere and at Gibraltar they were clustered in clumps like flies. Even using the Snort at night to recharge the batteries risked discovery and whenever it was raised, they picked up the radar of enemy ships or planes in their area. There were times when Reinhard doubted that they would manage to sneak by and when one of the diesels stopped and took two days to repair, it seemed impossible that their luck would hold out.

They were off the west coast of Africa before he finally gave the order to surface. Compressed air hissed into the tanks and the depth gauge in the conning tower acted like a heartbeat gathering sudden strength. When Reinhard wrenched at the wheel in the control tower and flung wide the hatch he saw a million stars shining above his head.

He hauled himself slowly and stiffly up the ladder on to the bridge and breathed in the balmy air of the southern seas. A phosphorescent trail shimmered in their wake and a bright moon, riding high, illuminated an empty ocean. No enemy ships in sight. No ships at all. Only the U-boat.

His first officer joined him. ‘Rather a welcome sight, sir.'

‘Yes,' he said. ‘Very welcome.'

The rest of the crew climbed up in turn and stood, taking deep lungfuls of air and gazing round in awe, like men who had emerged from a tomb.

Fuel was running short. If they were to reach Argentina, Reinhard decided that they could only dive deep in a desperate emergency and could not use the Snort again. Both were too wasteful. They stayed on the surface, travelling at a slow speed for ten hours on one diesel. For the remaining fourteen hours they used the electric motors. If the worst came to the worst they could head for Brazil, or even make a sail for the boat.

Dolphins turned up to escort them, playing alongside and diving under the boat. At night they passed passenger ships and, once, a large liner, lights blazing, overtook them, close enough for them to see people walking up and down the promenade decks in evening dress and to hear the ship's dance band playing.

Surfaced, they could listen to music again – to sambas and rumbas and tangos, American swing and jazz – and to the news, which it might have been better not to hear. Occupation had followed Germany's crushing defeat. The Americans, the British, the French and, worst of all, the Soviets had parcelled up the whole country between them. Berlin, isolated in the Russian sector of the country, was cut up in shares, like a cake. Survivors were somehow existing in ruins and queuing for soup and a crust of bread. Those crew with families left behind suffered for them; some of them regretted their flight.

Stroma was Reinhard's only regret, and it was a bitter one. God help him, he'd behaved with her exactly as she would have expected a Nazi to behave. Five years of savage war had turned him into nothing less than a brute. What else could she think? He had given her no chance.

They approached the Cape Verde islands one night and watched the sun rising over the high cliffs. At periscope depth they passed close to an island where fishermen were at work and headed for another that was deserted, where the water was a clear blue and the sand pure white. They anchored offshore and swam and lay in the sun. The men were all in good spirits now and in far better health. The skin troubles had cleared up; their faces and bodies were browned by the sun; their muscles became stronger by the day. Clothes were washed attached to a line and towed behind the boat, then dried on deck under the tropical sun. They slept out at night and ate their meals under makeshift awnings slung between the guns. To vary their diet, they caught fish with harpoons or hand grenades. More dolphins came to play and an enormous whale swam round the boat and followed them for several hours.

When they crossed the equator they acted out the old ceremony, rigged out in improvised fancy dress, with Reinhard as Neptune, a broom for a trident. Nobody would have taken them for a battle-hardened U-boat crew.

It grew cooler as they went further south, and without charts of the area, their course had to be by dead reckoning. They steered well clear of the rocks and reefs of the coast of Brazil and, as they came closer to Argentina, the men began to pack up their belongings in knapsacks.

‘We have two options,' Reinhard told them. ‘Either we take the boat into port, give ourselves up to the Argentinian authorities and hope that they don't hand us straight over to the Allies, or we scuttle our boat, use the dinghies to get ashore and go our separate ways. It's for you to decide.'

They talked it over. Few of the crew knew any Spanish or looked in the least South American, but they had a ready assortment of civilian clothing. Finding jobs as skilled fitters should not be a problem for some, while others were prepared to do any kind of labour. When a vote was taken, it was unanimously agreed to seize their chance of freedom and a new life.

Scuttling the boat was painful for Reinhard. Easy to do, but difficult to witness. He and the boat had been through hell together and a part of him went down with her.

Engelhardt said quietly, ‘An honourable end, sir. Putting her to rest. Much better than being sunk by the enemy, don't you think?'

There was some truth in that. Apart from clothes, he had saved three things from the boat – his binoculars, the photograph of Stroma, and her scarf.

On a deserted beach, he shook hands with his Number One before they went their separate ways. Engelhardt held some useful cards: he was short enough and dark-haired enough to pass unnoticed among Latins and he spoke some Spanish, as well as English. His trump card, of course, was his boundless optimism.

Reinhard's own height and blond hair drew attention and he decided to stay away from cities and the curious eyes. He jumped a freight train and got a job in a slaughter house where no questions were asked of any hired hand so long as he did the job. It was gruelling and gruesome. The stench of blood and guts, the pitiful terror of the animals and the callous indifference of the handlers were more harrowing than anything he had experienced in war. After several months he left, jumped another train and found work on a large and remote
estancia
west of Buenos Aires. By then his Spanish was good and he had invented a plausible past with a half-German mother to account for the height and the blond hair. The
estancia
owners were much more interested in the fact that he could ride a horse well and that he had no objection to long days spent herding cattle out on the pampas. He slept in a bunk-house with the gauchos, or else out under the stars. The hard life suited him fine: there was no time to think or remember or regret.

From time to time, listening to visitors to the
estancia
, he learned news of Europe. His country was still occupied and starving, men still kept behind barbed wire. The Kriegsmarine had been disbanded by the Allies. But, apparently, the city ruins were being cleared away, brick by brick by brick.

Unfortunately, the
estancia
owner's wife took too much of a liking for him and it became wiser to move on. He worked on another
estancia
for more than a year before he found a job as a clerk in a shipping office in Buenos Aires where his knowledge of languages came in useful. People accepted him and his re-invented past. They were no longer very interested in fleeing Nazis, or former U-boat commanders. The city was vibrant, the sun hot, the food good, the women beautiful. What more could one want?

By chance, he met Engelhardt, who had married an Argentinian girl and settled down in Argentina very happily. It was not impossible to imagine doing the same himself one day.

And yet he knew that he never would.

Hamish's ship had been sent to the Far East to continue the war against Japan, and he was still away when Angus died in late July. Stroma had made all the necessary arrangements for the funeral. Their old friend was buried in the ruined kirk where their grandparents lay and everyone on the estate attended the ceremony. Mr Pirbright, Grandfather's solicitor, travelled from Glasgow with Mr Ross, the younger partner. Afterwards they came to the house to take a dram and to discuss Craigmore.

A replacement for Angus would have to be found and, now that the war was over, more workers should be taken on, order restored, improvements made, plans drawn up for the future of the estate.

‘I'll stay in the house for the time being, at any rate,' she said in answer to their question. ‘And Hamish will come here whenever he can. As you know, he's to be married in September.'

Mr Ross said, ‘You'll be needing some staff, of course: a housekeeper and cook, cleaners, someone to see to the gardens. Would you like me to help you to find them, Miss Mackay? We could advertise in the mainland newspapers, perhaps in
The Lady
?'

‘No,' she said. ‘I'd want them to be
ilich
.'

‘
Ilich
?'

‘Island folk. Born here on Islay.'

He nodded. ‘Of course. That would be best.'

She refilled their glasses once more.

‘I wanted to talk about something else as well, if you don't mind. An idea I've had.'

Mr Pirbright, lulled by the whisky, smiled at her indulgently. ‘By all means, my dear. What exactly was that?'

Hamish came up to Craigmore in the middle of September to do some fishing, and to escape the preparations for his wedding to Alice.

‘I suggest you elope, Stroma,' he told her. ‘Much simpler. You wouldn't believe the amount of nonsense that goes on. Lists a mile long, invitations, seating arrangements, hymns, readings, flowers . . . Christ knows what else. It's endless. Thank God, I don't have much of a say in any of it. All I really have to do is turn up on the day.'

But he seemed perfectly happy about it all and, having met Alice in London and seen them together, she could see why. Her sister-in-law-to-be was beautiful and kind and as much in love with Hamish as he was with her.

For old times' sake, Hamish took her out on the loch in the dinghy one day.

She sat in the stern, trailing her fingers in the dark and ice-cold water while he rowed to the windward end and shipped the oars. She watched him going through the familiar ritual with the cane rod – choosing the fly from the box and attaching it carefully to the hook before he stood athwart the boat and cast the line out into the water. He cast several times before there was the swirling movement that meant a take. Even now, she felt sorry for the fish and its desperate struggle, but she was ready with the net to help land it and passed her brother the priest to finish it off quickly and decently.

After he'd caught three more trout he offered her a turn with the rod.

‘No, thanks.'

‘Not still squeamish, are you?'

‘Four's enough for supper.'

Instinctively, she looked for Angus as Hamish rowed back, half-expecting to see his giant figure waiting for them on the shore.

The new gamekeeper came from one of the other estates on the island and the new cook was a widow from Killinallan. She was nothing like as fussy as Ellen about things and there would be no minute scrutiny of the four trout. An ex-POW had been employed to restore order to the gardens, helped by a lad who had just left Bowmore school. A daily woman with weight-lifter's arms walked from her cottage five miles away to see to the rough jobs. Craigmore was slowly coming back to life again.

After the trout dinner, she told Hamish about the plan for the mill.

‘Mr Pirbright and Mr Ross think it's basically a good idea. I took them over to see the mill and Mr Ross is going to do some sums. I'm finding out exactly what it would cost to repair the building with local labour and put the looms back in working order. And I've talked to Grace. She says that lots of women on the island can spin and she thinks they'd be willing to help.'

Hamish, like Mr Pirbright and Mr Ross, was in a mellow mood after several whiskies. ‘Well, good luck to you.'

‘You don't mind?'

‘Mind? Why should I?'

‘Well, it'd be half your money. And you'll have a wife to consider. Alice might not be quite so keen.'

He waved his glass around. ‘Craigmore belongs to us both, Stroma. It's our responsibility. Alice won't interfere. And besides, if Ross's sums don't add up, he'll put the brakes on the whole idea. I'm not worried, either way.' He reached for the decanter again. ‘By the way, I've been meaning to ask you, why have you cried off from being a bridesmaid at the wedding? Alice wanted you as the head girl, or whatever it's called.'

‘I'm awfully sorry to let her down, Hamish, but I can't be.'

‘Can't be? Why on earth not?'

‘Because I'm pregnant.'

The decanter stopped in mid-air. ‘What?'

‘I'm having a baby. Not till sometime in February, but it already shows. Haven't you noticed?'

‘Christ almighty, Stroma! Who's the bloody father?'

‘He's almost certainly dead.'

‘The war?'

‘Yes.'

‘The Navy?'

‘Yes.'