Chapter Four

The seagull pin wheeled in mid air, drifting down from the rocks to sweep low across the harbour. Seeking fish or some other scrap left behind by a careless fisherman. It skimmed the gently rolling tide before flapping its wings to gain some height to clear the heavy stonewalls that sheltered the harbour from harm.

Vogel felt the sun warm him as he rested his elbows on the wrought iron rail of the balcony. He could smell the salt of the sea in the air and stood there a moment absorbing the atmosphere. He missed the open water, walking the deck of a ship in the early morning. Instead he was a bureaucrat, an administrator instead of a tactician.

The news was difficult to digest; the fortune of the German navy in the Mediterranean had shifted against them quickly after the loss of North Africa. They lacked the resources he needed to wrest control from the British, and for all their successes, the death toll was mounting.

The early part of the year had been a slaughter. Shattered hulks lined the bottom of the Mediterranean as bad leadership and inadequate support had nearly brought disaster. That was why he was there, he had been sent to that forgotten part of the world in the vain hope that he could change things. But one man, no matter how skilled, could not win the Mediterranean, the only thing that would make a difference was resources; something no one was willing to give him.

He had led a modestly successful career. During the early part of the war he had served on U-boats learning his art and mastering it. Because he had been there, cramped in the darkness he had a better appreciation for U-Boat strategy than the last commander of Tiran had. He used it to his advantage, co-ordinating raids and keeping in constant contact with this U-Boat commanders directing them on operations that took its toll on Allied shipping. He fought a long and hard battle, driving home spectacular victories.

Even then it wasn’t enough. A few weeks ago German high command had declared U-602 officially missing. It had set out on its patrol to never be heard from again. No doubt the victim of some catastrophe or ambush by British Destroyers that hounded his forces daily.

They needed to level the playing field again. Karl Dönitz had promised him more U-boats, but U-boats were excellent hunters, but they couldn’t escort shipping. They were incapable of the kind of fleet actions needed to drive the British out of the Mediterranean once and for all. At most they could delay, tie the British up in desperate hunts for the unseen predators. But it was a matter of time until the Allies launched an invasion of southern Europe, either into Greece or southern Italy.

Again he found himself wondering if that was a bad thing. He stood slowly from the rail and paced the length of the balcony squinting down towards the ships in the harbour. His command headquarters was in a commandeered hotel situated just below the great fortress. It held a fantastic view over the channel approach to the harbour, and an opportunity for him to see the U-boats he loved so much. It had once served Tiran as a five star hotel, ornately decorated before the occupation it had been stripped bare by his predecessor, looking to line his own pockets no doubt. Vogel often found himself wondering what the hotel had looked like in its glory days before the accursed war.

The fact was he wasn’t German; it was a common mistake to assume that he was. He had been born to Austrian nobility before the turn of the centaury. His father had fought hard for the Austro-Hungarian Third Riech and distinguished himself fighting to earn a place in modern warfare for the new U-boats. And Vogel had been raised from a young age to realize the strategic value of the vessels and working tirelessly alongside Karl Dönitz to build the submarine fleet during the rearmament of Germany. But that was where his loyalties ended.

He wasn’t German. He wasn’t a member of the Nazi party. He was proudly Austrian, and when Germany had annexed his homeland he had protested against it. But at the outbreak of war he had been given no choice, reactivated and dispatched to command the Baltic fleets he had gone. If Hitler was determined to drag his country into disaster, the least Vogel could do was ensure that the Kriegesmarine had a fighting chance.

He squared his shoulders. He did his job, with honour and dignity. His political views were secondary to his duty. Unlike so many that donned the uniform that seemed only content to furthering their own ambitions at the expense of peace.

The door to his office creaked open and he turned to face one of those men. Obersturmführer Riechsmaan marched into the room without knocking, a habit that irritated Vogel immensely. The Kapitan walked back into his office, standing easy watching the SS Lt. Colonel carefully.

He didn’t like the angular faced man standing before him. There was something wrong with SS officer’s, something in their eyes. It was as if they truly believed in Himmiler’s propaganda about the master race, that they were superior to the average man. But the funny thing with war, put a gun into a person’s hand and tell them to shoot an SS officer, they still died. Superior or not, they weren’t immortal. They still answered to god.

“Herr Kommandant.” Riechsmaan said pleasantly, but there was nothing pleasant about the man that had brought his prisoner problem to Tiran.

When he had heard about it, Vogel had argued against the arbitrary decision handed down from Himmiler concerning the evacuated prisoners from North Africa. They should have been moved off of Tiran months ago, dispersed among the POW camps in Europe but as usual the bickering bureaucracy of the various different factions at work in the Third Reich had caused delays. The conversion of Tiran’s fortress into a temporary Stalag irritated the Kapitan intensely; he had more important concerns than a group of prisoners.

“What do you want Obersturmführer?” he asked sternly as he rested a hand on the back of his high backed chair.

Riechsmaan smile slipped a bit, but he continued to keep it forced on his face. “I am informing you that I am sending for more SS guards to reinforce the camp.”

Vogel’s shoulders remained squared as he looked the Colonel up and down, “I don’t recall issuing permission for more SS troops to be sent here.”

The colonel licked his lips nervously, “I do not have enough men to secure the camp…”

Vogel arched an eyebrow, “how many men do you need to secure two hundred prisoners Herr Riechsmaan?”

“I do not have enough men to guard the camp and ensure civic order…” Riechsmaan continued brushing off his uniform absently, as if reminding himself that he was an officer. Vogel had a way of doing that, making junior officer’s feel self conscious, it unnerved the SS veteran.

“Leave the civic order to the Italians.” Vogel stated flatly, the neutrality in his voice indicated his displeasure, “If you need more men for the camp I will assign more men to you, but for the moment I am denying your request.”

“I wasn’t making a request Herr Kommandant.” Reichmann said defiantly, his blue eyes flashing coldly as he met Vogel’s gaze.

Vogel didn’t flinch, but his hand tightened on the back of his chair, “I was assigned to command Tiran Obersturmführer Reichmann, not you. Remember that in future, now report back to your post.”

“But Herr Kommandant…” Reichmann protested.

“You are dismissed!” Vogel commanded as he sat down in his chair, indicating the meeting was over. Reichmann stared at him a moment before he stormed from the office. The heavy oaken door slamming closed behind him.

The aging Kapitan rubbed his temple as he leaned on the arm of the chair. The SS had no place on Tiran with their terror tactics. In many ways they made administration of the outpost difficult, and he had enough concerns to deal with. Perhaps assigning someone to temper Reichmann’s enthusiastic administration of the POW’s was in order. He picked up the phone.

“Maggorie Campanili,” he said softly, removed his high peaked cap and running a hand through his greying hair, “Herr major, I need you to do me a favour. I require you to assign a garrison company to the fortress to assist Reichmann’s guards.”

He listened quietly to the Italian Major that commanded the Italian garrison of Tiran, nodding occasionally, “I expect the Capitano to report to the Fortress first thing in the morning.”