The Last Wolf (16 page)

‘That's very romantic, Grandfather.'

‘I've no doubt that this young man fell in love with you, which is why he wrote to you, and I don't blame him for that, but unfortunately we are at war with his country. He's the enemy now. So I'm afraid you'll have to forget him, Stroma. And he will have to forget you.'

‘I'm sure he's already done that.'

Her grandfather smiled. ‘Are you? You're not that easy to forget, my dear.'

Before Stroma went back to school for her final year, she went to see Rosanne and her family in the silent house near Reigate. Jeremy's body had been discovered in a wood near Dunkirk and Rosanne's mother had collapsed with grief, while her father had retreated into another world.

‘I have to leave school,' Rosanne told her. ‘So I can be here to look after them.'

‘I'm awfully sorry.'

‘Well, I never did like the place. We've always hated it, haven't we?'

‘Yes.'

But lately, in the last year, Stroma had liked it better and she pitied Rosanne having to live in the silent house that was so heavy with grief.

‘What will you do – besides looking after your parents?'

‘I don't know. A boring secretarial course, probably. There's a place in Reigate. I could learn typing and shorthand.'

Poor Rosanne.

Before Stroma left, she took another look at the photograph on the dining-room mantelpiece: at the decent-looking Jeremy in his army uniform; a man who would never come home again. He was smiling at her, but it was a sad and wistful smile.

On the train back to London, she stared out of the window at the corn stubble fields and the dusty trees.
Please God
, she thought,
don't let it happen to Hamish
.

The forty-day patrol in October had been a triumph – six enemy ships sunk by their boat alone and eleven more claimed by other U-boats in the pack, all snapping at the flanks of the convoy. Enemy planes flying out of Canada had tried hard to drive them off but there was a fatal gap in the mid-Atlantic that was out of their range where convoys were left with only their seaborne escorts. With new and reckless daring, the U-boats had surfaced and gone down the lines between the ships, firing their torpedoes.

The wolf pack had pursued the remainder of the convoy across the ocean and as far as the west coast of Ireland, sinking three more freighters before British Sunderland flying boats had appeared in the sky like avenging furies, dropping their depth charges. The boat had had a narrow escape but, luckily, the damage wasn't too serious and they had slipped away and stopped later to carry out repairs in a sheltered bay on the south-west coast of Ireland.

‘Charming people, the Irish,' the Old Man had observed blandly. ‘Very sympathetic. No need to worry about any problems with them.'

Reinhard had been dispatched to take the rubber dinghy ashore with four of the crew, to see what could be foraged from the nearest village. As the Old Man had predicted, the natives were friendly and anxious to help. They had returned to the U-boat laden with bottles of Irish whiskey and Guinness, a side of bacon, eggs, butter, fresh bread and milk. Ashore, Reinhard had also seized the chance to leave a letter with the baker's wife and had paid her well to post it. The deutschmarks might come in useful to her one day, though she would probably simply throw the letter away.

Their welcome in Lorient was better than ever. A bigger band, even more high-ranking officers, a large crowd all cheering and waving, flowers, American cigarettes, French champagne flowing, smiling girls. One of the prettiest girls, a nurse, presented him blushingly with a single red rose which he slotted through a buttonhole before he kissed her.

He spent his leave in Paris again, living it up at The Ritz. Rather ironic, he thought, that the French who had lost their war somewhat ignobly still dined like kings and the women still dressed superbly.

He could afford to splash out, after all. He had a very generous allowance from his father and an income from capital left to him by his mother, as well as his special U-boat service pay. And what was the point of economizing when the next patrol might be his last? Dead men didn't need any money. It was no trouble to find beautiful women to pass the time with; it never had been for him.

In December, Friedrich Merten was sent to do the commander's training course and Reinhard took his place as First Officer on the next patrol and, with it, promotion to Oberleutnant zur See.

‘Your turn soon,' the Old Man said, ‘if you keep your nose clean.'

Predictably, the Atlantic weather was vile. Hauling their fourteen torpedoes and 120 cannon shells, they charged through breakers whipped white by gale-force winds, looking for business. The U-boat's bow reared and fell in great spine-juddering jolts and below the deck, inside the pressure hull, a lunatic poltergeist was at work, hurling around anything that wasn't screwed or nailed down.

As it turned out, the new Second Officer wasn't up to his job and the Old Man turned as savage as a baited bear. Things went from bad to worse. A radio message came through with news of a convoy but it was too far away for them to reach. They battled on; and on. Still no enemy ships and still filthy weather. Several days later another message was received and the Old Man was suddenly all smiles – almost kind to the Second Officer. The Japanese had attacked the American fleet at anchor in Pearl Harbor in Hawaii and war had been declared between the United States and Japan and Germany. Restrictions on attacking American shipping no longer applied. The gloves were well and truly off.

It took another twelve days to cover the rest of the Atlantic and to reach the north-east coast of America where an astounding sight met their eyes. There was no blackout. At night, towns blazed with lights, ships were lit up, lighthouses and navigation buoys beamed at them brightly. They could fix their position with a hundred per cent accuracy from well-illuminated landmarks ashore. The Old Man could not believe his luck and kept rubbing his hands together.

At dawn, they sighted smoke on the horizon and closed in to attack a big American merchant ship. The polite old days at the war's beginning, when it had been customary to stop and search a vessel before sinking her, were long gone. Their opening torpedo struck her bow, the second, fired after her crew had taken to the lifeboats, finished her off. She was the first of a haul of more than twenty American ships sunk by five U-boats cruising up and down the eastern seaboard over the following days, and it was easy pickings. Their own special prize victim was another oil tanker. Two torpedoes got her. She exploded in a colossal mass of flames, two hundred metres or so high – the whole ship ablaze from bow to stern and all the water surrounding her was on fire. There was no hope for any of the crew. They could hear the agonized screams of men as they died; even the Old Man looked shaken.

One night, they slid into New York harbour waters and surfaced, like tourists, to admire the famous outline of the city – the Empire State Building, the Chrysler Building, the skyscrapers twinkling away and visible for miles. From the U-boat's bridge, Reinhard could see the car headlights moving along the roads, traffic lights changing colour, jolly Christmas decorations winking and blinking. All the ships in the harbour were clearly back-lit, presenting perfect targets.

What fools! What innocent fools!

In the wardroom on New Year's Eve, the Old Man raised his glass of beer, grinning from ear to ear.

‘To our American allies – God bless them, every one!'

The letter was lying on the hall mat. Stroma saw it when she came back from a shopping trip with her mother. They had been buying things for school – toothpaste, shampoo, soap, shoe polish, brown lisle stockings, that sort of thing.

It had come with the afternoon post and was lying on the mat with several others. She recognized the foreign writing on the envelope at once and hid it away in her coat pocket.

Upstairs in her room, with the door closed, she sat on her bed, holding the envelope. There was no name and address on the back, as he had always put before, but the writing was definitely his. The postmark was impossible to decipher and the stamp was a kind she had never seen before.

After a while, she tore the envelope open and unfolded the piece of paper inside. No address at the top and no date either.

Dear Stroma,

I do not believe that you will ever receive this letter, but I write it in case I am able to send it to you somehow. I think of you often and I hope that you are safe and well.

It is now five years since I first saw you, but I still remember our meeting at Craigmore. You were twelve years old and you were wearing the clothes of a boy and your knee was bleeding. Also, I remember our game of croquet, and how I was so angry to lose. You thought I was a very bad sport, which was true. And I remember the beautiful sunset that we watched and how you played the piano afterwards. And I remember that you came with your brother to the Green Cove the next day to see our boat,
Sturmwind
, and that it was raining very hard. You had no coat or shoes and you were very wet. I was worried that you would catch a cold. When you left, I carried you over to the jetty.

You will soon be eighteen, I think, but I hope that you have not changed too much from the small girl I met on the island.

I will soon be twenty-three years old and I have changed very much. I am not sure that you would recognize me. I have a beard at the moment, so I am like a pirate and very dirty. It's better that you don't see me now.

My English is not so good because I do not have the chance to speak it for some time, or much time to think. Also, I do not have a dictionary with me. So, please excuse my mistakes. I have kept all the letters that you wrote to me, and I still have the photograph.

I am sorry that our countries are at war, and for everything bad that is happening. I hope that the war will soon be finished and that we will meet again. This is what I wish with all my heart.

From,

Reinhard

She'd forgotten about the knee but she could remember exactly how he'd looked and how tall he'd seemed to her. She remembered sitting next to him at dinner later and how she hadn't been very nice to him because Hamish had thought they were spies. In fact, she'd been rather rude.

Afterwards, they'd played the croquet match, which Reinhard and his brother had lost and which had made him angry. He'd been a very bad sport, and when she'd told him so, he'd apologized. They'd stood on the lawn, looking at the sunset, and talked about his dead mother, and about Hamburg where he lived and about her boarding school. When she'd told him that Hamish had thought they were spies he'd been shocked.

But we are not at war now
. And they hadn't been – then.

She'd forgotten about the rain at Glas Uig the next day, because it was always raining, but she remembered that he'd picked her up and carried her to the jetty when they were leaving. She remembered that bit most of all.

Hamish came home for forty-eight hours' leave. In the evening, after dinner with the parents, he took her out to the pub round the corner where he drank several beers and smoked cigarette after cigarette.

The lounge bar was crowded and very noisy so it was difficult to hear what he was saying. Not that he could tell her much anyway – only the bare bones. Things were pretty bad, he said. The bloody Germans and their bloody U-boats were having it all their own bloody way, picking off the convoy ships like shooting game.

‘We're chasing after them and getting nowhere. The trouble is finding the bastards, let alone destroying them. We can only do about twelve knots, which is useless, and they keep giving us the slip and getting away scot free. Our air cover's not good enough either. There's a gap in the mid-Atlantic which is out of range for the planes and, of course, the U-boats know it. That's exactly where the swine strike.'

Thank God he'd never find out about Reinhard's letter. Nobody would. She'd torn it up, thrown the pieces on to the drawing-room fire and watched them burn to ashes.

‘You look dreadfully tired, Hamish.'

‘I am. You've no idea what it's like at sea in a corvette in bad weather – we might as well go to sea in a bucket. The damn thing never stops pitching and rolling and everything's a shambles – on deck and below. You're soaked through and freezing cold. You can't get dry, or sleep, or ever stand up properly. And you get so tired sometimes you can't even think straight. The food's filthy – mostly corned beef and powdered potatoes – nothing else keeps. The only consolation is that it must be just as bad for the U-boat crews. Worse, in fact. I wouldn't be in one of those iron coffins for anything. We'll get them in the end, you know. We'll find out how to clobber them, and what a ghastly way to die! Caught like rats in a trap at the bottom of the ocean, suffocating slowly in the dark. No chance of escape. Just waiting for the end.'

She shuddered. ‘How horrible . . .'

‘Don't waste your sympathy on them, Stroma, for God's sake. They're ruthless killers and they deserve everything they get.'

He got up to fetch another pint from the bar. While he was gone an elderly woman sitting at the next table leaned over. ‘Something wrong, dear? You seem a bit upset.'

She shook her head. ‘I'm quite all right, thank you.'

When Hamish came back, they talked about Craigmore. He had got Grandfather's letter and the news had surprised him as much as it had her.

He lit another cigarette. ‘I suppose I've always assumed that he'd leave it to the parents one day. They've never been that keen on the place, of course – Ma hates it up there, as we know – but I never thought he'd pass it straight on to us.'

‘Nor did I. And I can't imagine Craigmore without Grandfather. How on earth would we manage to look after it properly?'

‘Not too sure. I wouldn't want to spend all the time up there, would you? I mean, it's marvellous to visit, for the fishing and shooting and everything, but not for the whole year. We'd have to employ someone to run the estate for us, and keep on Angus and the men, and Ellen and Mack as well. Grandfather said he'd leave plenty of money for the upkeep, but personally I think we might be better off selling the place.'