Chapter Six

It was a month that was to become known to those in the German naval high command as “Black May”. It was the turning point of the battle of the Atlantic that heralded an end to the golden era of the U-boat. For any of the Kriegesmarine that had earned the right to wear the white cap cover on their peaked caps, it was a time of heavy losses.

Vogel had warned Dönitz, and Dönitz in turn had warned Hitler. Despite the fact that the German Naval leaders were doing their best, the war had turned against them. And as the aging Kapitan walked along the dock to the BV 138 that was purring ready to transport him to the Austria, he chewed his lip thoughtfully.

The assembled officers waiting for him on the wharf knew their responsibilities in his absence. They were dependable men, and Tiran would be in good hands. The problem was he had no faith in the man he had to leave in charge of them. He marched past them to the ladder of the plane and examined the ungainly craft.

The BV 138 was German’s attempt at a long-range patrol craft. It lacked the aesthetics of an American Catalina, resembling a Dutch Clog with wings. But the craft was the only aircraft capable of flying from Tiran and reaching Berlin.

He shrugged on the waterproof long coat, a style commonly used by land forces and adjusted the pair of motorcycle goggles on his white covered cap, and he looked like he was set to drive there. But he knew from experiences that the spray the 138 would kick up in take off would soak him to the skin.

Riechsmaan had waited until the last minute as usual, the Kubelwagen from the fortress rumbled to a stop as the Obersturmführer leapt out to hurry up the wharf to the waiting plane. The Kapitan paused a foot on the run of the ladder and looked over at Riechsmaan. “I was under the impression you were busy redecorating my office.” He observed dryly.

The SS-Obersturmführer snapped off a salute as one of his subordinates brought forth a black briefcase of documents. “I was wondering Herr Kommandant, if you would take these dispatches with you and see that they are delivered to SS Command.”

The Kapitan hesitated before he stepped down and accepted the black briefcase into his hands. He paused a moment and flipped it open, despite Reichmann’s look of protest.

He leafed through the various reports until he found the requisition he was searching for, and he drew it out, resealing the pouch. He held it up and scanned over it a second before crumpling it up into a ball and handing it back to Riechsmaan. “I would be all to happy to do you this favour Herr Riechsmaan.” He replied, “However I made it clear about your request for more Waffen-SS on my Island,” he climbed back up the ladder and settled into the seat of the plane, indicating to the Kriegesmarines to release the mooring lines.

Riechsmaan stood for a long moment watching the plane pull away from the dock, and bounce its way through the waves until it was airborne. He looked down at the rejected requisition order and tightened his fist. He turned and marched back towards his car.

* * *

The flying boat had landed on Lake Königssee. The lake was almost synonymous with Berchtesgaden. The former kings of Bavaria used the king’s lake in the heart of Berchtesgaden when they spent their holidays at Berchtesgaden's royal palace. It was a beautifully calm pool, and as the flying boat curved about to skip to a landing on its surface it seemed almost tranquil.

The beautiful alpine mountains of his homeland surrounded him as he stepped down onto the wooden quay, and he squinted up at the sun as it shone down from just above the mountains. He tasted the crisp air and was glad again that he had chosen to wear the coat. He looked like a field officer, and he contemplated changing there for the meeting that was to come. But instead he marched down to the gravel road and the car waiting for him.

The car climbed its way to the lower slopes of Obersalzberg Mountain but nothing could have prepared him for the breathtaking ascent up this incredible mountain. Such was the virtually precipitous gradient that the powerful Mercedes struggled to haul itself up the single-track mountain road.

He had made this journey once before, a few years ago when he had been awarded the Knights cross by the Fuhrer, after sinking 200,000 tons of American shipping in the battle for the Atlantic. And he stroked the brittle hairs of his beard as he stared at the valley falling away beneath him as the car zigzagged its climb. In the distance the trio of snow-capped peaks of the Watzmann, Hochkalter and Unterberg lurked like great stone monoliths.

The valley forests far below took on the appearance of a lawn and the car powered its way through thin cloud cover. And he mused on looking down at the clouds for the second time that day.

Up there, slowly climbing to the top of the world, he understood why Hitler liked to bring his guests there. It was about power. As it climbed skywards, Vogel couldn’t help but think about mount Olympus.

He leaned forward when he noticed the car was not turning in the typical direction of the Berghof, Hitler’s residence at the mountain complex. His eyes narrowed as the car swept on its climb and he sat back in the seat, the driver knew where he was going obviously.

It took twenty minutes for the car to reach a broad plateau and drew to a stop. The Kapitan nodded simply to the driver who had remained silent through the entire drive, and stepped out glad again that had the foresight to dress the way he had. At that altitude it was close to freezing and he was just below the snow line.

He stood for just a moment taking in the sights around him, before he walked across to stone clad tunnel leading deep into the mountain. And for a man who had spent much of his career aboard submarines, he felt claustrophobic. It was cut into the mountainside, a massive stone clad tunnel illuminated by ornate lamps it was an impressive display of wealth. He didn’t pause until he had boarded the largest elevator he had ever been aboard. He didn’t take a seat on the green leather upholstered seats. Instead pointedly ignored the attendant as the brass contraption swept him up through the core of the mountain to the peak far above.

He emerged on top of the world. The Eagle’s Nest ‘fortress’ was an impressive granite stone building beautifully furnished with lavish furniture. He didn’t hesitate, but marched his way into the huge round reception hall with many panoramic windows and a most impressive marble fireplace.

The windows commanded a magnificent vantage point six thousand feet below he could now absorb the incredible natural beauty of the entire alpine panorama. In the distance glistening in the afternoon sun he could see Konigsee Lake. And far to the south across the plain Mozart’s beautiful Salzburg completed his scenic wonder.

But he hadn’t come for the view.

He stood in the doorway a moment, regarding the wolves.

They were the inner circle, the men that had taken a broken country and forged it into the dominant power in Europe. He didn’t pause; he belonged in that room as much as any of them. And many of them knew it. Herman Goring glowered from his seat beside the fire, the Riechsmarschall clutching his baton tightly and trying his best to ignore the new comer.

There was something about men that hid behind the lines that made Vogel’s skin crawl. They were all brilliant politicians, claiming victories earned on the backs of fighting men, growing in power, repute and fame. But when they came face to face with a stark reminder of the war they had brought down upon the world they cringed from it. As if by ignoring Vogel’s worn appearance they could hide behind their own self-confident arrogance.

Vogel found he had little time for them in return. He, like Dönitz, preferred to not to use position as an excuse to hide behind their men. Having a direct hand in the war allowed him to actually do something about it. The battle for the Atlantic Dönitz had fought through direct involvement; he directed his ships, over saw operations personally. Made it clear to his men that he was there to lead them. Vogel respected that, he commanded the Mediterranean the say way. Commanding out of the U-boat outpost of Tiran instead of hiding in Venice or Naples he was able to directly influence the front line of the war. His war.

He didn’t need to clutch a marshal’s baton and curry favour from a despotic dictator through political games. The success of his boats was all he needed. It was probably the reason he was in the Mediterranean rather than carrying a baton himself. There was a price to pay for existing on the front line.

A price Vogel had come to know all too well. The Third Reich was Hitler, as much as he was the Third Reich. A man renown for his erratic mood swings and bouts of intense paranoia. Unless you were standing at his side guiding his hand, you were all too often forgotten.

That had been Rommel’s fate in North Africa, and was the same fate Vogel now faced in the Mediterranean. Hitler’s apathy.

He smiled up at the Field Marshal, Rommel stood apart from his contemporaries, hands folded behind his back staring down towards the valley below. They had come to know each other well over the years Vogel had commanded the supply lines from Tripoli. There was a bond that had developed between two men that had depended so long on each other for each and every success. Vogel got Rommel’s supply’s past British Blockades, and Rommel kept the harbours protected from land attack.

He found himself standing alongside the field marshal staring out of the window at the dark clouds that were beginning to form. “Wüstenfuchs,“ Vogel greeted, standing easy his own eyes scanning the horizon to the south. Both officers were thinking about their men.

“Seehund.“ Rommel replied, a touch of humour in his voice as he turned a moment to look back over the other officials in the room behind him. “The wolves are all gathered, you know old dogs like us should be careful.”

Vogel smiled as he slipped off the worn coat he wore and tossed it over the back of a side chair, “It should be interesting.” He observed.

The side doors opened and the great man himself arrived. But it was a changed man from the one that had risen to power through ambition and a sharp knife in the darkness. Adolf Hitler, the man feared by the rest of the world was also a man that was feared by many of his own supporters. But Vogel had trouble understanding that. He was simply a man. The more the wolves pandered to him, the more Vogel found himself growing uneasy. A cult of personality was one thing, but with so many people scrambling over every idea like animals over the occasional bone, Vogel began to wonder how much reason was left amidst the ego.

When finally the meeting came to order Vogel took his place standing at Dönitz’s shoulder. His place was to support the Grand Admiral, but it gave him a keen vantage point to observe the room. Hitler seemed reserved at first when he had entered the room, hardly like the political giant that had swept across Germany and enclosed Europe in an iron grip. He seemed tired and distracted as the meeting began. And it became more evident as the meeting wore on that Hitler was troubled.

The meeting immediately swung to the battle in the North Atlantic, Dönitz advising that the new Allied aerial search devices were the major responsibility for the loss of an estimated thirty six submarines during the month. Vogel suspected the number to be higher, but chose to remain steadfastly silent while his superior delivered his assessment.

The Fuhrer seemed almost reluctant to comment on the matter at first, accepting the losses quietly. He agreed to new Radar search receivers and countermeasures for the U-boat fleet. But the moment Dönitz suggested new aircraft in the Bay of Biscay to meet the threat of the Allied aircraft, Hitler met it with pessimism.

“They are unsuited to the task,” he responded after a glance to Goring for support. He received it readily; Goring’s interests were squarely with hoarding the valuable aerial resources for the Luftwaffe. And Vogel cursed again the seeming dependence on the air force as the first line of defence. But Hitler understood the value of the Luftwaffe, and with Goring standing at his side reminding him of that value; things were like to remain that way.

It was a long meeting, new weapons were discussed, and Vogel stepped in a couple of times to offer recommendations on countermeasures to the various threats against his u-boats. But his recommendation for anti-aircraft guns on the U-boats was met by too much optimism.

He swore inwardly when the idea was put forward that some of the U-boats be set up as anti-aircraft traps. Armed with heavy flak guns and ready to discourage any air attack by totally destroying an attacking plane. The problem was readily apparent to a man that had served on a Submarine, the surface was dangerous, to stand and fight a group of aircraft, no matter how well armed the U-boat was, would be suicide.

He felt his anger rising as he attempted to dissuade the strategy, angrily trying to point out that a group of dive bombers could make short work of a lone U-Boat, flak guns or not. But the Fuhrer’s mind had been settled, the plan was to go ahead. And Vogel now stood firmly fixed in the Fuhrer’s sight.

“What do you need to gain control of the Mediterranean?” The question was short, abrupt and to the point. The intense eyes were fixed on the aging Kapitan and he simply squared his shoulders and met the stare.

“I need more ships Herr Fuhrer.” Simplicity demanded simplicity.

The Fuhrer did not seem amused; he sat waiting for a proper answer. Vogel blew out a sigh and absently adjusted his high peaked cap. “The British control the Mediterranean, they have done since the withdrawal of our forces from North Africa.” He stepped around the chairs into the centre of the room, his hands folding behind his back, “The strategic failure to neutralize the Maltese threat has allowed the British to establish a Submarine base in the centre of the Mediterranean.” Vogel looked squarely at Field Marshal Kesselring, the man that had tried and failed to level Malta on repeated occasions. The man glowered at him, angry with the reminder of his failure.

“I inherited a house in disarray, and I need ships to combat the threat of submarines in the Mediterranean Sea. Ideally I need the Italian navy that has chosen to hide itself at Naples.” He stood, his feet braced apart and his back rigid staring down at the Fuhrer. “I appreciate that our ally,” he chose the word with caution, Mussolini was a dicey subject with Hitler, and it was no secret that the Italian dictator hid his precious fleet away from the action so that he had something of value to negotiate with. Who would argue with a man who had a powerful naval force at his back?

“What are your plans for defeating the Royal Navy?” Hitler pressed; the Italian fleet was already dismissed. It had been worth a shot.

Vogel sighed, “I am going to persecute the enemy with our submarine resources. In reality they are all I have at my disposal. I can delay an invasion fleet but I cannot hope to defeat the Royal Navy with the resources I have…”

“And the other project?” Hitler pressed.

“It is proceeding slowly,” Vogel admitted truthfully. He should have anticipated that question.

The “project” was a daring plan, one that could have only come from the mind of a man who could conceive grand schemes that combined innovation with strategy all tied up in the guise of politics. No one in the room doubted its importance. If it worked, it could turn the tied of the war, and ensure victory.

One lone ship, tucked into an inlet harbour in the Adriatic, on the far side of Tiran with the power to change the war. It had been a part of a secret deal with the Spanish before the war. They had delivered one of their two battleships into the hands of the German’s without the Allies being aware of it. The treaty of Washington had limited the German Navy from building Battleships, tying its hands from ever fully competing with the Allies. But there had been ways around that. Flagrant disregard had seen to the construction of the Bismark and Tirpitz. But the British hunted them without mercy, running one into the ground, and forcing the other to hide like a rabid Wolf in the Baltic.

The Graf Spee had been a valuable lesson on the dangers a lone raider could offer to Allied shipping and morale.

“It is proving difficult to smuggle the parts needed complete the Espana.” Vogel stated, “We managed to ship the canons through Yugoslavia and are assembling them now, but it will still be several months before the ship is ready to sail.”

Dönitz sighed heavily, “The Hull is completed Mien Fuhrer,” He glanced at Vogel, “We have successfully modernized the vessel without anyone learning of its existence yet. However once she sails…”

“She will sail under the Spanish flag.” Hitler said sternly, “any that see her will know she isn’t one of ours, or the Italians. They will assume Franco lied and they will ignore it.”

Vogel felt his insides tighten, when a Spanish Battleship descended from no where to attack allied shipping in the Mediterranean there would be only one conclusion, they would act decisively strike at Spain, forcing General Franco to run into the loving embrace of an old…old friend.

The details of the progress were a subject of much debate and the Fuhrer had not been pleased at the seeming slow progress. The angry remarks as he had stormed from the meeting room in one of his rages had come as almost a relief to the men inside. Admiral Dönitz had quickly nodded to Vogel in thanks for the honest assessment and had hurried after the manic leader, and other officers had stepped outside for cigarette breaks. Aware that the Fuhrer detested smoking.

Vogel hadn’t stayed; he had marched outside the building, shrugging on his coat as he moved to find the small footpath that would lead him away from the building. He couldn’t leave, the Fuhrer may have been displeased with him, but that was to be expected. Rarely did the Fuhrer accept realistic assessments of the situation. And his order stand and fight had destroyed the African Korps.

“Herr Kapitan.” The gruff voice caused him to pause and he turned to see Rommel walking painfully down the path towards him. He paused, resting an aged hand on the rail and waited for the Field Marshal to catch up. The man’s obvious pain and his insistence to walk up the treacherous path only heightened Vogel’s concern that something was wrong.

“Generalfeldmarchall.” Vogel replied.

“Erwin.” Rommel responded coming to a stop and taking a moment to rest a hand on his side. Surgery Vogel guessed.

“Max,” Vogel extended his hand and the two officers shook hands like men. Field officers both stranded in the heartland of politics. It was a different kind of battlefield.

Rommel nodded, “Good. Now tell me honestly about this plan to draw Spain into the war.”