Thunder Point (7 page)

He went out and Baker, relaxed now that everything was in hand, busied himself making breakfast, aware that he was hungry. He sat at the table to eat it, reading Travers’ copy of that morning’s London
Times
while he did so. It was perhaps an hour later that he cleared everything away and went into the study.

Travers sat at the word processor, watching the screen, his fingers rippling over the keyboard, the diary open and standing on a small lectern on his right-hand side. There was a curiously intent look on his face.

Baker said cheerfully, “How’s it going?”

“Not now, old boy, please.”

Baker shrugged, sat by the fire and picked up a magazine. It was quiet, only the sound of the word processor except when Travers suddenly said, “My God!” and then a few minutes after that, “No, I can’t believe it.”

“For heaven’s sake, what is it, Garth?” Baker demanded.

“In a minute, old boy, almost through.”

Baker sat there on tenterhooks, and after a while Travers sat back with a sigh. “Finished. I’ll run it through the copier.”

“Does it have anything interesting to say?”

“Interesting?” Travers laughed harshly. “That’s putting it mildly. First of all I must make the point that it isn’t the official ship’s log; it’s essentially a private account of the peculiar circumstances surrounding his final voyage. Maybe he was trying to cover himself in some way, who knows, but it’s pretty sensational. The thing is, what are we going to do about it?”

“What on earth do you mean?”

“Read it for yourself. I’ll go and make some more coffee,” Travers said as the copier stopped. He shuffled the sheets together and handed them to Baker, who settled himself in the chair by the fire and started to read.

Bergen, Norway, 30 April 1944. I, Paul Friemel, start this account, more because of the strangeness of the task I am to perform than anything else. We left Kiel two days ago in this present boat designated U180. My command is in fact a craft that was damaged by bombing while under construction at Kiel in nineteen forty-three. We are to my certain knowledge carrying the number of a dead ship. My orders from Grand Admiral Doenitz are explicit. My passenger will arrive this evening from Berlin, although I find this hard to swallow. He will carry a direct order in the Führer’s own hand. I will learn our destination from him.

There was a gap here in the diary and then a further entry for the evening of the same day.

I received orders to proceed to the airstrip where a Feiseler Storch landed. After a few minutes an officer in the uniform of an SS General appeared and asked if I was Korvettenkapitän Friemel. He in no way identified himself, although at that stage I felt that I had seen him before. When we reached the dock, he took me to one side before boarding and presented me with a sealed envelope. When I opened it I found it contained the order from the Führer himself, which had been mentioned in Grand Admiral Doenitz’s personal order to me. It ran as follows:

From the leader and Chancellor of the State. Reichsleiter Martin Bormann acts with my authority on a matter of the utmost importance and essential to the continuance of the Third Reich. You will place yourself under his direct authority, at all times remembering your solemn oath as an officer of the Kriegsmarine to your Führer, and will accept his command and authority as he sees fit and in all situations.

I recall now, having seen Bormann once at a State function in Berlin in 1942. Few people would recognize the man, for of all our leaders, I would conclude he is the least known. He is smaller than I would have thought, rough featured with overlong arms. Frankly, if seen in working clothes, one would imagine him a docker or laborer. The Reichsleiter enquired as to whether I accepted his authority which, having little option, I have agreed to do. He instructed me that as regards my officers and the crew, he was to be known as General Strasser.

1 May. Although the officers’ area is the most spacious on board, it only caters for three with one bunk lashed up. I have taken this for myself and given the Reichsleiter the Commanding Officer’s compartment on the port side and aft of what passes for a wardroom in this boat. It is the one private place we have, though only a felt curtain separates his quarters from the wardroom. As we left Bergen on the evening tide, the Reichsleiter joined me on the bridge and informed me that our destination was Venezuela.

2 May 1945. As the boat has been fitted with a snorkel I am able to contemplate a voyage entirely underwater, though I fear this may not be possible in the heavy weather of the North Atlantic. I have laid a course underwater by way of the Iceland-Faroes narrows and once we have broken into the Atlantic will review the situation.

3 May 1945. Have received by radio from Bergen the astonishing news that the Führer has died on the 1st of May fighting valiantly at the head of our forces in Berlin, in an attempt to deny the Russians victory. I conveyed the melancholy news to the Reichsleiter, who accepted it with what I thought to be astonishing calm. He then instructed me to pass the news to the crew, stressing that the war would continue. An hour later we received word over the radio that Grand Admiral Doenitz had set up a provisional government in Schleswig-Holstein. I doubt that it can last long with the Russians in Berlin and the Americans and British across the Rhine.

Baker was more than fascinated by this time and quickly passed through several pages which at that stage were mainly concerned with the ship’s progress.

5 May. We received an order from U-boat command that all submarines at sea must observe a cease-fire from this morning at 08.00 hours. The order is to return to harbor. I discussed this with the Reichsleiter in his quarters, who pointed out that he had the Führer’s authority to continue still and asked me if I queried it. I found this difficult to answer and he suggested that I consider the situation for a day or two.

8 May 1945. We received this evening by radio the message I have been expecting. Total capitulation to the enemy. Germany has gone down to defeat. I again met with the Reichsleiter in his quarters and while discussing the situation received a ciphered message from Bergen instructing me to return or to continue the voyage as ordered. The Reichsleiter seized upon this and demanded my obedience, insisting on his right to speak to the crew over the intercom. He disclosed his identity and the matter of his authority from the Führer. He pointed out that there was nothing left for any of us in Germany and that there were friends waiting in Venezuela. A new life for those who wanted it, the possibility for a return to Germany for those who wanted that. It was difficult to argue with his reasoning and, on the whole, my crew and officers accepted it.

12 May 1945. Continued south and this day received general signal from Canadian Navy in Nova Scotia to any U-boat still at sea, demanding we report exact situation, surface and proceed under black flag. Failure to do so apparently condemning us to be considered as pirate and liable to immediate attack. The Reichsleiter showed little concern at this news.

15 May 1945. The snorkel device is in essence an air pipe raised above the surface when we run at periscope depth. In this way we may run on our diesel engines underwater without using up our batteries. I have discovered considerable problems with the device, for if the sea is rough, and nothing is rougher than the Atlantic, the ball cock closes. When this happens, the engines still draw in air, which means an instant fall in pressure in the boat and this gives the crew huge problems. We have had three cases of ruptured eardrums, but proceeding with the aid of the snorkel does make it difficult for us to be detected from the air.

17 May 1945. So far into the Atlantic are we now that I feel our risk of detection from the air to be minimal and decided from today to proceed on the surface. We carve through the Atlantic’s heavy seas, continually awash, and our chances of encountering anyone in these latitudes are slim.

20 May 1945. The Reichsleiter has kept himself to himself for much of the trip except for eating with the officers, preferring to remain on his bunk and read. Today he asked if he could accompany me when I was taking my watch. He arrived on the bridge in foul weather gear when we were barreling through fifteen- and twenty-foot waves and thoroughly enjoyed the experience.

21 May 1945. An extraordinary night for me. The Reichsleiter appeared at dinner obviously the worse for drink. Later he invited me to his quarters where he produced a bottle of Scotch whisky from one of his cases and insisted I join him. He drank freely, talking a great deal about the Führer and the final days in the Bunker in Berlin. When I asked him how he had escaped, he told me they had used the East-West Avenue in the center of Berlin as a runway for light aircraft. At this stage he had finished the whisky, pulled out one of his duffel bags from under the bunk and opened it. He took out an aluminium Kriegsmarine captain’s briefcase like my own and put it on the bunk, then found a fresh bottle of whisky.
By now he was very drunk and told me of his last meeting with the Führer, who had charged him with a sacred duty to continue the future of the Third Reich. He said an organization called the Odessa Line had been set up years before by the SS to provide an escape line, in the event of temporary defeat, for those officers of SS and other units essential to the continuance of the struggle.
Then he moved on to the Kamaradenwerk, Action for Comrades, an organization set up to continue National Socialist ideas after the war. There were hundreds of millions salted away in Switzerland, South America and other places and friends in every country at the highest level of government. He took his aluminium case from the bunk, opened it and produced a file. He called it the Blue Book. He said it listed many members of the English aristocracy, many members of the English Parliament, who had secretly supported the Führer during the nineteen-thirties and also many Americans. He then took a paper from a buff envelope and unfolded it before me. He told me it was the Windsor Protocol, a secret agreement with the Führer signed by the Duke of Windsor while resident at Estoril in Portugal in 1940 after the fall of France. In it he agreed to ascend the throne of England again after a successful German invasion. I asked him what value such a document could be and how could he be sure it was genuine. He became extremely angry and told me that, in any event, there were those on his Blue Book list who would do anything to avoid exposure and that his own future was taken care of. I asked him at that point if he was certain and he laughed and said you could always trust an English gentleman. At this point he became so drunk that I had to assist him on to the bunk. He fell asleep instantly and I examined the contents of the briefcase. The names in his Blue Book list meant nothing to me, but the Windsor Protocol looked genuine enough. The only other thing in the briefcase was a list of numbered bank accounts and the Führer order and I closed it and placed it under the bunk with his other luggage.

Baker stopped at this point, put the diary down, got up and walked to the window as Garth Travers entered.

Travers said, “Here’s the coffee. Thought I’d leave you to get on with it. Have you finished?”

“Just read what Bormann told him on the twenty-first of May.”

“The best is yet to come, old boy, I’ll be back,” and Travers went out again.

25 May 1945. 500 miles north of Puerto Rico. I envisage using the Anegada Passage through the Leeward Islands into the Caribbean Sea with a clear run to the Venezuelan coast from there.

26 May 1945. The Reichsleiter called me to his quarters and informed me that it was necessary to make a stop before reaching our destination and requested to see the chart for the Virgin Islands. The island he indicated is a small one, Samson Cay, south-east of St. John in the American Virgin Islands, but in British sovereign waters being a few miles south of Norman Island in the British Virgin Islands. He gave me no indication of his reason for wishing to stop there.

27 May 1945. Surfaced off the coast of Samson Cay at 21.00 hours. A dark night with a quarter moon. Some lights observed on shore. The Reichsleiter requested that he be put ashore in one of the inflatables, and I arranged for Petty Officer Schroeder to take him. Before leaving he called me to his quarters and told me that he was expecting to meet friends on shore, but as a precaution against something going wrong he was not taking anything of importance with him. He particularly indicated the briefcase which he left on the bunk and gave me a sealed envelope which he said would give me details of my destination in Venezuela if anything went wrong and the name of the man I was to hand the briefcase to. He told me to send Schroeder back for him at 02.00 hours and that if he was not on the beach I was to fear the worst and depart. He wore civilian clothes and left his uniform.

Travers came back in at that moment. “Still at it?”

“I’m on the final entry.”

The Admiral went to the drinks cabinet and poured Scotch into two glasses. “Drink that,” he said, passing one to Baker. “You’re going to need it.”

28 May 1945. Midnight. I have just been on the bridge and noticed an incredible stillness to everything, quite unnatural and like nothing I have experienced before. Lightning on the far horizon and distant thunder. The waters here in the lagoon are shallow and give me concern. I write this at the chart table while waiting for the radio officer to check for weather reports.

There was a gap here and then a couple of lines scrawled hurriedly.