The Last Wolf (31 page)

‘Well, we can bloody soon find out if he's dead or alive. There are lists, you know.'

‘No, we can't.'

‘Why not?'

‘I can't tell you, Hamish. I can't tell you anything more about him.'

He splashed whisky into his glass. ‘Have you gone raving mad, Stroma? You can't just have a baby with no father, let alone no husband.'

‘I'll say he died in the war. The islanders won't be shocked. In fact, they'll probably be very nice about it.'

‘So, you'll stay here?'

‘Yes. I've already seen Dr Mackenzie. He's going to look after me and the baby. Besides, I want it to be born here at Craigmore. To be an
ileach
. To belong to the island.'

‘That's all very well, but have you thought about what life will be like for him, or her? Being illegitimate? A bastard?'

‘Yes, I've thought about that, but there's nothing I can do to change things.'

‘You could get it adopted.'

‘I'd never do that, Hamish. You know I wouldn't.'

He gulped at the whisky. ‘Tell me, have I ever met this chap?'

‘You came across him.'

‘Came across him? What's that supposed to mean?'

‘It's all I can tell you. Can I have some of that whisky, please?'

‘Do you think you should?'

‘Yes, I do.' She held out a glass. ‘I hope Alice won't mind about it too much.'

‘Good lord, no. She's not like that. In fact, the whole white wedding thing's a bit of a farce, to tell the truth. It's been the war . . . Never knowing if you'd be dead tomorrow . . . Different rules. We've all been in the same boat.' Hamish smiled wryly. ‘But somehow I have a feeling that my future mother-in-law might continue to take the old-fashioned view.'

At the shipping offices in Buenos Aires, Reinhard was promoted from a humble stool in a dark corner to a chair and a desk with clients of his own. People seldom asked questions about his past and, if they did, he was ready with his answers. From time to time, he came across other Germans who were equally anxious to stay out of the limelight, but, if possible, he avoided them.

He had followed the news reports of the trials which had begun in Nuremberg soon after the end of the war: the Allies' long process of deciding which Nazis were guilty of war crimes and which were not so guilty. The Grossadmiral, who had been so idealized and respected by all his U-boat crews as a fair and human man, had been given a shockingly harsh sentence of ten years' imprisonment. The rest, it seemed, had entirely deserved their punishments.

As Reinhard had expected, the U-boat crews had generally been badly treated – perceived as hardened Nazis and kept captive long after their fellow naval men had been released.

Two years later, Reinhard had read about the blockading of the western sectors of Berlin by the Soviets and about British and American planes flying in food and supplies and coal to keep the citizens alive and stop the Russians from seizing the whole city. A round-the-clock Allied operation. Night and day, fair weather or foul, one plane arriving every few minutes – not to kill people this time, ironically, but to keep them alive. The Russians had finally given up and the railways and highways and canals had been reopened, trains and trucks and barges allowed to pass to and from Berlin once more.

It had dawned on him at last that the Allies were now busy hauling Germany to her feet, not crushing her under their victorious boots. He had also realized that it was time for him to go home. The call was too strong. A life of relative ease in the Argentine was not enough. Freedom, after all, was not enough. He could no longer turn his back on his country, whatever the consequences.

The shipping office was handling a cargo of frozen meat bound for Hamburg – one of many consignments heading towards starving Europe. It was easy enough to sign on as an extra deck-hand and work his way across the South and North Atlantic.

The ruins of his home city shocked him anew, but rubble had been cleared away, buildings repaired, others begun, and the port was crowded with Allied shipping.

He slipped ashore, avoiding officials and checkpoints, and walked the streets, passing people who looked emaciated and exhausted and, yet, who seemed to have some hope in their faces.

He came to the bank that his father had used and where he and Bruno had also kept accounts. The old building had been damaged in the bombing raids, but stood intact. And the same manager was there.

Reinhard had known Herr Bekker for many years. Loyalty to his U-boat crew made it out of the question to tell him his true story, but Reinhard had no need to invent a new one. The manager was the soul of discretion and only too glad to see him alive. They had been officially notified of Bruno's death, he said, but unable to establish any precise news of his own fate.

‘You were reported as missing, presumed dead. That's all we knew. With the world still in turmoil, no one can be certain of these things. We waited in hope.'

The bank, it seemed, had kept the money in his account safe, together with the inheritance from his father.

‘A not inconsiderable sum, all told,' the manager said. ‘Your father was very astute in his investments, as you know. You will have no worries on that score.'

It was a minor worry at the moment, he thought wryly – the major one being that he had no official discharge papers. Nothing to show that he was not some dangerous war criminal on the run from justice in post-war Europe.

‘I may be able to help you,' Herr Bekker assured him. ‘On the whole, the British are very reasonable and we're fortunate to be in their zone. I have some useful contacts and I'd be happy to vouch for you personally, of course.'

The British naval officer who interviewed him was an older man, grey-haired and with a tobacco pipe on the desk before him. A commander, with three gold rings to his sleeve. He looked affable, almost jolly, but Reinhard was not deceived.

‘What was your position in the Germany Navy?'

‘U-boat Commander.'

‘Hum. I thought we'd dealt with all you chaps. You seem to be the last one left.' He leaned back in his chair, fingering the pipe. ‘How did you manage to turn up here?'

His boat, Reinhard said, had been attacked and sunk by British aircraft off Norway just before the end of the war. He had been on the bridge and had been the only survivor. He had managed to reach the shore and had taken refuge in the mountains. Subsequently, he had been held prisoner in various temporary Allied camps and eventually escaped to Sweden where he had stayed in hiding until he had thought it feasible to return to Germany. It was perfectly possible, and as hard to disprove as it was to prove.

‘Were you a member of the Nazi Party?'

‘No, I was not.'

‘A member of the Hitler Youth?'

‘No.'

‘All you Germans always deny it. How did you become an officer in the German Navy – much less a U-boat commander – if you were not a Hitler Youth or a member of some other Nazi organization?'

‘You have been misinformed, sir. Our Navy did not recruit officers from the Hitler Youth and Party membership was not required in any form. As you are probably aware, Admiral Dönitz himself was never a member of the Nazi Party.'

‘We've captured all the Party records, you know. It's very easy for us to check.'

‘Do so, by all means. You will not find my name among them.'

‘Any false statement on your part will incur a severe penalty.'

‘I understand.'

‘So, you take full responsibility for your actions as a submarine commander?'

‘Certainly. I did my duty.'

‘To your Führer and to the Nazi Party?'

‘To my country.'

The commander moved some papers around on his desk.

He said, ‘Actually, I was in submarines myself during the First World War. We had a fine crew and an excellent captain. A band of brothers, you might say. Very close. The fate of one was the fate of all. I've always considered submariners to be a breed apart. No doubt you agree?'

‘Totally, sir.'

The commander took his time consulting a long list of names of people apparently still wanted by the Allies, turning page after page and running his finger slowly down them. Finally, he put the list aside.

‘Well you don't appear to be among any of those.'

He stamped the discharge papers and handed them over. He even smiled.

‘Good luck, Korvettenkapitän.'

With the Kriegsmarine no longer in existence, and no uniform to wear, Reinhard was, of course, no longer entitled to be addressed by any rank. He understood that it was a mark of respect from the other man, and it was a moment before he could speak.

‘Thank you, Commander.'

He paid a visit to his father's grave, where he placed a bunch of flowers that he had managed to buy from a street stall. Bruno had no grave. His Me 109 had gone down over the North Sea and they might easily have both shared the same resting place. Though he had always anticipated his own death, he had clung to the hope that his brother would somehow survive.

He thumbed a lift from a British army lorry heading out of the city towards Kiel, and sat up in the cab beside the driver. The corporal was friendly and curious. His English was difficult to understand but Reinhard got the gist.

‘You were in U-boats, mate! Blimey, I wouldn't have changed places with you for all the tea in China. You'd never get me into one of them things. Worst thing I can think of. Shut up in a perishin' tin can like bloomin' sardines. What did you do – fire the ruddy torpedoes?'

‘I was the captain.'

‘Bloody 'ell!' The corporal glanced at him with awe. ‘I wouldn't have wanted the job.'

‘Not for all the tea in China?'

‘You can say that again, mate!'

‘Oh, it wasn't so bad.'

They went a few more miles across the flat and open country. The corporal tried a new tack.

‘Ever come across Rommel? Your bloke in the desert?'

‘I'm sorry, no.'

‘Was out there meself for a time. Us Tommies thought a lot of 'im. Better'n some of our wankers, we reckoned, sir – if you'll pardon my French.'

It certainly wasn't a French word but he understood its meaning. The British never ceased to amaze him. Apparently they had no compunction in praising their enemy, if they thought he deserved it.

At Kiel he said goodbye to the corporal who drove off with a grin and a thumbs-up. Then he walked the rest of the way to Schleswig.

Old Hans, who had run the boatyard there, had died during the war – old age rather than a bomb for once – but his son Peter had taken over. It was much the same as it had always been, and
Sturmwind
was still in her place out on the shingle and covered with tarpaulin.

‘She'll need a good clean-up,' Peter said. ‘And some work on the engine, but otherwise she should be all right. I'll give you a hand, if you like.'

He spent several days working on the boat and sleeping in the main cabin at night. In the evening he ate at a wooden café built on a pier over the water, ate fresh-caught shrimps with mounds of potatoes and drank rough schnapps.

It took some time to restore
Sturmwind
to anything approaching her former glory, and he doubted that his father would have been satisfied with the result. But more important than chalk white ropes and gleaming brasswork were the changes that he needed – changes that would make her easier to sail single-handed. Peter helped him and they had the boat ready and provisioned by the end of July.

He took the route he had taken before with Father and Bruno, crossing the North Sea, blown along by the south-westerlies. That was the easy part. He passed south of the Orkneys and into the rip tides of the Pentland Firth – a sea passage he had last taken in the protection of a U-boat. When he turned the north-west corner of Scotland the fierce headwinds and the mighty Atlantic swell seized hold of
Sturmwind
and did their best to dash her on to the rocks.

He sailed on by the Inner Hebrides down to Mull, by the Strait of Corryvreckan and its treacherous currents and back-eddies, the hungry whirlpools. He and
Sturmwind
battled through alone.

A minke whale turned up off the coast of Jura and kept him company for a while before some dolphins arrived to show off their paces. He went by Rhuvaal lighthouse at the north-east end of Islay and entered the sound between the two islands, past the colonies of seals on the rocks, the wild goats on the cliffs, the deer and the cattle and the sheep grazing the seaweed on the beaches. The mauve Paps of Jura rose to port, the whisky distillery lay on his starboard, and, further on, the slipway and stone cottages of Port Askaig came into view. Under the impassive but curious gaze of some locals, he tied up at the far end of the jetty and walked along to the inn.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim light inside the hostelry and to make out the woman behind the bar. A middle-aged woman in a print dress, and a knitted dishcloth in her hand that she was using to swab the counter. When she spoke, he could barely understand a word.

‘A beer, please,' he said, smiling politely, hoping he had answered what she had asked.

‘A pint?'

‘Yes, please.'

‘What sort wuid ye like?' She rattled off names, none of which meant anything to him.

‘The one you think best.'

She nodded and he watched as she pulled the pint into a glass, letting the foam rise to the exact top of the rim, and not a millimetre below or above. For dead-on, pinpoint accuracy, he would have recruited her in his U-boat any day.

He paid with one of the Scottish notes thoughtfully provided by the Hamburg bank and she gave him a pile of coins heavy enough to make holes in his pockets. The beer wasn't to his German taste, but it was drinkable.

He looked round. There was nobody else in the bar and so he had her complete attention. All her eyes and all her ears.