Chapter Two

He didn’t know how long he had been in the water. Minutes seemed like hours, the cold water lapping over him as the morning sun rose into the sky. It was early April and he was floating somewhere off of the French coast, swallowing salty seawater as the small life vest kept him afloat. He shivered despite the sun; he had to figure out what he was to do next.

If he was lucky the Spitfire pilot or one of his squadron mates would have spotted his parachute and would radio in his position. A British MGB boat would pick him up and he would be back home before he knew it. That was his best bet, the second best option was for him to be picked up by the German’s before he died of hypothermia.

He splashed vainly, trying to roll over in the water to see where he was, if he could see the shore he might be able to swim for it. He had read about people swimming the English Channel, it had to be possible. But most of them had some idea the direction they were supposed to head in. for all he knew he would be swimming in circles.

He gave up the struggle, drawing his arms up close to him, glad that despite the fact he still wore his flight gear, the Mae West vest kept his head out of the water and let him breath. The grey sky above him showed him an unobstructed view of clouds drifting overhead. If it weren’t for the small fact that he was going to die, he would have found it relaxing.

He must have drifted off to sleep; he was surrounded by gently lapping waves and the occasional seagull. Then there was another sound, that of engines coming closer. Walker hadn't realized it, but there'd been no sound of engines before. That in itself spoke of something being terribly wrong there.

His eyes snapped open, motor?

He craned his neck to get a glance at that sleek grey steel wall that was just in the corner of his eye, and he paddled in an effort to turn and see who his would be rescuers were. There was a rush on the deck above him, the sound of a whistle and yelled orders he couldn’t quite make out, before he was unceremoniously fished out of the water.

He lay on the deck a moment in disorientation, shivering in the cold, feeling rough hands picking through his pockets. He blearily tried to strain to see, and smiled up at the sailor bending over him holding a Colt .45. Well that had to be good, he thought to him self, the Krauts wouldn’t have an American gun.

He smiled broadly, “Glad you could make it.”

“Sein ein Amerikaner!” the sailor exclaimed examining Walker’s pistol in his hand.

Walker’s face fell immediately as he realized the sailor was speaking German. He focused his eyes and looked about him again, the Golden Nazi eagle emblazoned on a bulkhead, behind the submarines single deck gun. The Germanic lettering on the Sailors hat, as well as the two Kriegesmarine sailors levelling MP-40’s at him. He stood shakily to his feet and held his hands up, closing his eyes.

“Damn!” he said softly, as the two Kriegesmarines with the sub machine guns pushed him ahead of them through the submarines hatch into the cramped passageways of the ship.

* * *

It was hours before an officer appeared. It was as if they hadn’t known what to do with the downed airman. He had been handcuffed to a rail, sitting on one of the bunks used by the junior officers. He had stood there, sopping wet for awhile, before an officer pushed his way forward to unlock his cuffs, indicating that he should strip off the life vest and useless flight helmet. He had been cuffed again a few moments later, shifted around so that he could sit on the small hard bunk. At least he would be moderately comfortable. He still felt damp sitting in the sodden uniform, the crushed cap that had miraculously stayed into the pocket of his jacket where he had thrust it before take off. He at least retained some dignity when he put it back onto his head, and he sat patiently handcuffed to the bunk in the middle of an enemy submarine waiting until some one came to question him.

It smelled awful, sweat and hydraulic fluids, and a constant stream of sailors went past him. Some blatantly ignoring him, but the younger ones too time to stare at the prisoner. For men who spent their time cooped up in a tin can, this was the first time they saw the face of the hated enemy.

Walker grinned at them, what else could he do? He sat there in wet clothing and watched their activity with interest. He was still sitting when his interrogator arrived.

The officer was a Leutnant by the rank insignia on his pristine uniform, a pinched face young man that looked nothing like the typical German recruitment poster. Walker was unimpressed; he had expected a blonde hard-faced superman. The awe-inspiring master race that was supposed to over run the world. Instead he was facing a kid barely old enough to shave more than twice a week.

“Walker, Walker, Captain United States Air Force.” Walker repeated his service number, the standard rote that had been drilled into him since he had enlisted. It was supposed to be the response to any question asked. And under the Geneva Convention it was supposed to be all he could answer.

The young officer marked onto a sheet of paper, and without saying a word simply left him, walking forward, Walker craned his head after him looking the length of the submarine as the young officer vanished into the control room.

Walker sank back into the uncomfortable mattress and looked at it. A prisoner of war, he blew out a long breath, 26 and that was it. It was a spectacular way to end his sixtieth mission, sitting on a German U-boat waiting to be sent to an interrogation centre.

The room, if it could be called that, was just a little forward of aft torpedo room. Walker could see the vicious torpedoes that were destined for allied shipping and the young men that serviced them talking among them selves. Forward was a galley, he could tell by the rattling of pots and pans and the smell of something noxious bubbling away. The bunk was one of eight and he figured they were reserved for officers; a couple had green curtains pulled across them, perhaps occupied. He sighed, for all he knew they were bound for the deep Atlantic, or worse for the Pacific. He could be chained to that bunk for a very long time.

He again considered how “lucky” it was that he had been rescued. Sooner or later they would start applying the thumb screws, attempt to learn everything he knew, which wasn’t very much at all, and he wondered how he would fare under torture.

That was a scary thought. He realized he was only making things worse for himself and he tried to stand up, awkward considering he had to bend a little to keep his arms form being stretched. It was his duty to figure out how to escape, but considering where he was, where could he possibly go? He sank back to the bunk, wondering if he would ever see the outside world again.

He must have slept, cramped into the bank, hugging the hard pillow and ignoring the noise of the radio room a few feet away, because he had awoken with a start to find one of the Kriegesmarines tapping him with his boot, indicating to a plate full of food that he dropped onto the bunk beside the prisoner. A few seconds later he left.

The food was edible, if unappetizing, a slice of dark bread with cheese, cup of coffee, and a bowl of Sauerkraut soup. It was noxious smelling, vile and he had to refrain from choking on it as he swallowed it down. But he was ravenous and he ate it all.

The hours wore on, blending together into days, there was nothing to do but think. They gave him nothing to read, there was no radio. All he had was the bunk and the occasional face of a sailor passing him by. He watched the officers as they talked to one another, occasionally they would look at him and go back to talking amongst themselves in German. Walker wondered if anyone spoke English, he was almost longing for a conversation. But as he watched the officers enter and exit their bunks, carry on with their lives, he realized that he was an inconvenience, he took up space, was in the way.

He was escorted to the head if he needed to go, one of the boat’s sailors would always accompany him. He was self conscious about being watched, but there was no luxury of privacy on the U-boat.

Every few days his Leutnant “interrogator” would enter the room, sit down on the bunk across from him and just watch him. Always in that immaculate uniform, with a pair of eyes that shone with intelligence. And Walker considered trying to make conversation, but that would be wrong wouldn’t it?

He sat on the third visit staring back at the Kriegesmarine, studying him as he himself was being studied. That was the face of the enemy, after so long fighting a war where he was separated from them; he could actually see the face of the enemy. He opened his mouth.

“Herr Kapitan!” The Leutnant shot to his feet, and Walker craned his head to get his first look at a U-boat Captain.

The officer was rough and unkempt, a stark comparison to the Leutnant, he was unshaven and a beard was beginning to form on his face. The clothes were rumpled and dirty, and his face was lined and leathery. This was one of the wolves of the sea, the men the British spoke of with such disdain.

He had a brooding look on his face as he indicated for the Leutnant to go forward, he took his place on the bunk across from Walker and sat back a little.

“American?” he asked, his English was heavily accented but understandable.

Walker nodded, “Captain Joesph Walker, United States…”

The U-boat commander nodded, “KorvettenKapitan Max Vogel, and this is U-431. You are a prisoner of war.”

“I gathered,” Walker replied dryly lifting his handcuffs.

Vogel looked at them and his eyes tightened a little, “I am on a patrol and will not be putting into a base for a few weeks. I have some simple rules, out of necessity to ensure the safety of my boat.”

Walker sighed and nodded, “Alright Captain.”

Vogel nodded, “First if you try to escape you will be shot. There is nowhere to go, except back into the sea, a place I will be happy to send you.” He gave a tight smile, “My second rule is no noise. If you make a noise when you hear the order for silence, you will be,” he made a slicing motion across his throat, “I do not care about the Geneva convention when it means the safety of my boat.”

Walker nodded again, “I understand Captain.”

“Good.” Vogel replied as he stood and marched forward again. Walker collapsing back to the hard bunk, wondering for the umpteenth time why he hadn’t simply drowned.

* * *

There was an excitement running through the boat. He didn’t understand what was being said, but he could feel it. Over the past week at sea he had become accustomed to the sudden rushes as the submarine cleared for a dive. The nervous hush that settled over the crew when they waited in anticipation for the all-clear order to go through. But this was different; the crew were giving each other knowing looks. And at one point Walker had even see one of the officers pull out a set of Rosary beads from his locker.

He had heard of naval superstition, but now that he saw it, he felt as though he could understand it. He was nervous as well, what ever was scaring the crew it was contagious. The Captain, Vogel had made an inspection of the aft torpedo room, not even bothering to look at the prisoner. He congratulated his men, and Walker caught something about Gibraltar.

Gibraltar, wasn’t that an English fortress? Wasn’t that down by Spain? He suddenly knew why they were nervous; the straights of Gibraltar were notorious killing grounds for U-boats, the British persecuting them mercilessly. He had read a newspaper article about it before he had left England. And it suddenly made sense why everyone on the U-boat was scared. He swallowed and began to sweat, he felt the tinge of that same fear begin to affect him.

The dive klaxon rang out, and there was a scurry of activity as everyone secured for the run. Walker had lost track of time, day was night in that dimly lit world underwater. He rolled as far as he could onto his back and stared at the bunk above him. He began to wonder if he would survive, or if he too would be sent to the bottom of the straights with the German sailors by his own side.

He wondered about some of the things he could have accomplished if America had stayed out of the war. If the Japs hadn’t bombed Pearl Harbour. He would be working in his Dad’s store, continuing to amount to nothing as he looked for some kind of purpose. He had been a good pilot; he had earned the Captain’s bars on the shoulder straps of the worn G-2 jacket he wore. His purpose had come out of a need to stay alive, and now, instead of being in the sky, fighting the enemy, he was with them, trapped in a metal coffin under water. And he felt like every one else did on that boat, fearful.

He opened his eyes to see Vogel moving aft again, a final check before he ordered his ship to almost certain death. The man, in his mid thirties seemed so much older at that moment, he stopped at the edge of the bunk and knelt down beside his prisoner. His face softening, “I am wishing my crew luck.” He said almost awkwardly, “You are not part of my crew, but you will share this…” he searched for a word, “Challenge with us. Good luck Captain, this will soon be over.”

Walker struggled to sit up, “Good luck yourself Captain.” And he realized he meant it. As much as he wanted the British to destroy every U-boat in the water, he wanted this insane man to succeed, and not just for his own life.

Vogel smiled, the first time Walker had ever seen the man do so, “I am a U-boat commander, I am luck.” And with that he continued his final checks of the boat.

The hours passed, the tension onboard the boat was so thick that Walker nearly choked on it, the time trickling by, as nervous sailors crept past his bunk moving through the U-boat like mice. Afraid to make any sound, terrified of the destruction a single sneeze could bring down upon them.

And when Walker awoke the next day, he blinked in surprise. He hadn’t expected to be alive, none of them had. And there was a feeling of relief onboard the ship. It was as if god had heard their prayers and spared them. The boat wasn’t in the clear, but it had reached the relative safety of the deeper waters of the Mediterranean and seemed to be pushing onwards with a new sense of morale.

Vogel had been right he was luck.

As the days ground into weeks, the constant rush to battle stations, followed by the equally sudden rush to stand down wore on the young pilot turned prisoner. He knew the U-boat had engaged some shipping and that it had sunk an enemy vessel. He also knew it had dodged a destroyer patrol that had searched for her. That had been a deadly cat and mouse game that had driven the U-Boat deeper and deeper into the Mediterranean.

The Leutnant that visited him, continued to say nothing, but eventually produced a small peg chessboard and even though they couldn’t speak to one another, engaged in epic battles across the checked field. Vogel had observed this activity, but hadn’t admonished the Leutnant for fraternizing with the enemy. It was something to end the monotony of being chained up, and Walker accepted it greatly.

And when he saw the Leutnant that day, he had expected another game. Instead the young Leutnant had unlocked the handcuffs and indicated for him to get up. After weeks of being chained up, where is only real exercise was when he was taken to the bathroom he felt a little unsteady on his feet. He rubbed his aching wrists, as he was led through the U-boat that had been his world for months.

Vogel was already up in the conning tower, and he nodded to Walker when he was brought up onto the main deck for his first taste of fresh air since his capture. He must have looked a sight, unshaven in nearly a month, but then they all did. And Walker put it out of his mind as he stared at the high walls the U-Boat was sliding towards.

It was an ancient harbour, high sandstone walls rose out of the island about the harbour, it was a place of sanctuary, sturdy and strong it looked foreboding. The U-Boat altered its course as its men gathered on deck, swinging through the harbour mouth and between two round stone towers. It gave them all their first view of Isla di Tiran.

Walker looked at the fortress sitting like a stone sentinel over the citadel nestled within the protective walls, the Kriegesmarine ensign flying from its upper battlements. A German supply base, a small outpost in the midst of British controlled waters. U-431 swung her bow around, pulling past a small destroyer with an Italian flag on its stern. It was an impressive little flotilla a pair of U-boat’s at anchor alongside well-protected piers. A couple of Schnell boats were tied up at another, and a German BV 138 flying boat sat under guard a little beyond that. It was a well-defended port, tucked into a natural crevice in the island sheltering it from Ariel attack. A huge shore battery had been constructed below the fortress; ready to fend off allied vessels that strayed too close. Even for a pilot, it was a forbidding display of German might.

The U-Boat pulled up to an empty pier, some of its men darting ashore to secure its lines, and Walker watched them move with a proficiency only a seasoned crew could muster. He sighed as he was led ashore and made to stand off to one side as a small Kubelwagen rolled through the narrow streets of the citadel to pull up at the end of the pier. A couple of officer’s stepping out of it.

Walker’s eyes were drawn to the officer that stepped out of the rear of the vehicle. An aging man in his late fifties, the angular lines of his face were heavily creased. It was a hard face, one that had seen much suffering in its time. And Walker genuinely believed, looking at it, the man enjoyed his work. He strode down the length of the wharf with a steady purpose. The rank on his grey SS uniform marked him a Obersturmführer, and SS Lt. Colonel. The badge on his breast denoted he had served the Fuhrer, and the Knight’s cross at his throat said he had done so well.

Vogel stopped at the head of the gangplank and waited patiently for the crew of U-431 to debark, shaking hands with the officer’s that came off, speaking to them in a gruff German. The officers and men seemed to like what he said, their proud smiles as they formed up on the wharf said as much.

KorvettenKapitan Vogel saluted the Colonel as he came ashore, the two men engaged in a deep conversation in which the Colonel looked over at Walker with a severe eye. There was a difference between the two men. Vogel had a natural self-confidence about him that he projected onto other people, where as the Colonel simply radiated fear. He crossed the wharf and stood easy before the young pilot.

“Captain Walker,” His English was flawless, if anything its accent was decidedly American sounding. His deep brown eyes looked the young pilot up and down, “Welcome to Tiran.”

Walker snapped off a crisp salute, there were manners to be displayed to senior enemy officers. The Geneva Convention was clear on the respect that was to be displayed. There was a formality to it, something between officers.

The Colonel smiled at the gesture, as he turned to the guards and issued orders to them. The two Kriegesmarine sailors escorted him down the wharf and handed him off to a group of SS guards that waited wolfishly for him.