Cold Gold

By Peter Wooton

An old man dying in a Boston hospital hands his daughter an old diary containing details of the the location of a hoard of gold ingots stolen from the Russians during World War Two. He asks his daughter to promise she and her husband, a former US Navy SEAL, will act on the contents of the diary. Meanwhile, a wealthy German businessman, the son of a former U-boat officer, knows of the diary and will stop at nothing to get his hands on it in the belief the diary belonged to his father. In England the Royal Marines son of recently deceased trawler skipper finds in his father's papers, a story of his father's trawler fishing off north Iceland and snagging in its nets wooden crates full of gold ingots. With the crates safely on board, the trawler makes for the small fishing town of Isafjordur in Iceland's west fjords but is overwhelmed by a ferocious storm and is lost.With the help of two friends he decides to search for the wreck of his father's trawler and salvage the gold. The problem is, they are not alone. An American couple and a German businessman are also searching for the gold...

• Language: English
• Publisher: N/A
• Release date: Jun 12, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201001025

Peter Wooton

Following a portfolio career that included working in Iceland, several years as a motor vehicle technician, obtaining a post graduate diploma in management from the University of Hertfordshire, many years in management within the public sector and in parallel to his day job, thirteen years serving with the Royal Naval Reserve at home and abroad and in several ships. Then In 2013 Peter opted for early retirement, Originally from Watford, Hertfordshire, Peter now lives with his Italian wife in the East Midlands where he spends most of his time writing novels featuring Mike Harding,

Book preview

Prologue

It was in the very early hours of the morning of 31 May 1942, as Cologne’s town hall clock struck one o’clock and the grotesque wooden Platzjabbeck gargoyle opened its mouth to stick its tongue out, that the wail of air-raid sirens filled the night air. The sirens were late. The bombing had already started. In advance of the main bomber force, Pathfinder aircraft were dropping hundreds of incendiaries to start the fires intended to light the target. Following behind the Pathfinders at ten thousand feet, a stream of over one thousand assorted heavy bombers of RAF Bomber Command were being guided to the target by the GEE system of intersecting radio waves. In each aircraft the navigators huddled over their small chart tables as they busily plotted the course along the Rhine and instructed their pilots to look for the twin spires of Cologne’s ancient cathedral. Radio operators listened intently for the single tone that would indicate they were over the target, while the bomb aimers made ready to drop their deadly load onto an already fiercely burning city.

The monotonous drone from hundreds of aircraft engines, combined with the thump-thump-thump of anti-aircraft fire from the ground and machine gun fire from German night fighters, added to the cacophony of sound. Unbeknown to them as they ran to the shelters, the citizens of Cologne were embroiled in Operation Millennium, the first thousand-bomber raid ordered by Air Marshall ‘Bomber’ Harris, Air Officer Commanding-in-Chief, RAF Bomber Command, in revenge for German attacks on British and other European cities. With the words ‘They have sowed the wind, and now they are going to reap the whirlwind’ Harris’s order, plus fate and poor weather over the primary target, decreed that cologne would be the second choice.

The raid lasted for seventy-five minutes, during which time almost fifteen hundred tons of high explosive was dropped, two-thirds of which were incendiary, six hundred acres of the city centre had been destroyed, four hundred and eighty-six civilians had been killed, fifty-six thousand made homeless, forty RAF aircraft had been lost and for one officer of the Kriegsmarine the future would be changed forever.

PART ONE

Chapter One

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Upstairs in a small house backing onto Trankgasse, not far from the main railway station at Hauptbahnhof, Elle Hoffman begged her mother to seek refuge in the air raid shelter just down the street. Elle was a newly married petite blonde. A bride of only a few months, she loved her new husband dearly but the war was keeping them apart. She was in Cologne caring for her elderly mother, while her husband was in command of a U-boat currently stationed at Trondheim, Norway.

Elle pleaded desperately with her mother but the frail old woman was being obstinate. No. Elle, no. I want to stay here, in my bed. I’ve felt ill all week and spending the night in a damp shelter will not make me feel any better. We are near the cathedral. God will look after us. They will not bomb His house. Unfortunately, her steadfast belief in God was not, at that moment at least, shared by the bomb aimers and navigators who, at ten thousand feet above the city, were using the twin towers of Cologne cathedral as markers for the bombing run to the railway terminus.

The fire engine and ambulance alarms rang out as the drivers tried to find their way through the falling debris and heat of burning buildings.

Somewhere not very far away from the house on Trankgasse a bomb exploded. Windows rattled and ornaments shook as the small house trembled in the blast. Flickering orange-yellow light showed through the window panes. Elle cautiously pulled back the corner of a curtain to survey the scene outside, then immediately recoiled in horror at the sight of incendiaries raining down, searchlights sweeping the sky and ack-ack shells bursting high above. Much of the city was ablaze. Firemen fought desperately to control the huge fires but they were already fighting a losing battle. More explosions blasted the air, throwing flame and smoke high into the night sky. Almost sick with fear, Elle turned to her mother and begged, Mother! We must go or we will be killed! We must go. At once...please...please come.

A bomb exploded a few streets away. It seemed the ferocity of the raid was intensifying. The noise was almost unbearable. Another loud explosion shook the house to its very foundations, then a second huge explosion very close by. Pieces of ceiling plaster fell on the bed; the window was blown in, showering the carpet with shards of glass. Elle instinctively ducked, covering her head with her arms. She was terrified. Her face was ashen and she trembled with fear. Her mother was being infuriatingly, stupidly obstinate. Elle tried once more to get her mother to leave the house and head for the safety of the shelter but the woman absolutely refused to move.

No, Elle! I am not leaving my bed or this house. I am staying here. If I am to die, then I shall die in my bed.

Another massive explosion. The house across the road had taken a direct hit.

Smoke and debris was everywhere with body parts amongst the splintered wood and smashed masonry. Outside was a vision of hell. The acrid smell of spent high explosive and burning buildings was terrifyingly intense. Elle was distraught. She was crying but she could not leave her mother, neither could she remain in the house. She had to get her mother out, even if she had to drag her. Perhaps it was already too late. She grabbed her mother’s arm and tried frantically to pull her from the bed, pleading with her, almost screaming at her. We must go, we must! Come, mother, follow me. Quickly. We cannot sta....  Suddenly the decision whether to stay or go no longer mattered. 

The sound of a bomb smashing through the roof was the last sound Elle and her mother would ever hear. For a fraction of a second everything went deathly quiet. Suddenly the bomb exploded with an ear-splitting roar. Five hundred pounds of high explosive detonated with a searing flash of white heat. Jagged shards of lethal red-hot shrapnel ripped through the air. The explosion tore the house apart. Sheets of flame fuelled by a ruptured gas main engulfed what was left of the building. Beneath the rubble lay the savagely decapitated remains of Elle Hoffman. Her left hand, white and lifeless, protruded from the pile of smoking debris entombing her body. On her third finger she wore a gold wedding band.

Slowly, the fire cremated the white-skinned flesh, gradually charring it to black bones, then grey ash. Underneath the blackened, contracting fingers of Elle’s hand lay a small wooden picture frame. Flames were burning the wood but still visible under the cracked glass was a photograph of a confident young naval officer in uniform. Pinned to the left breast of his uniform jacket was a circular brass badge formed of gilded oak leaves. Mounted horizontally across the centre was a U-boat surmounted by an eagle. It was a badge issued only to submariners but the badge worn by the officer in the photo was missing a vital element. The small swastika usually fixed under the eagle had been removed.

Chapter Two

Kapitänleutnant Eduard Hoffman re-read the telegram for the umpteenth time before crushing it into a ball and throwing it against the bulkhead in a fit of almost uncontrolled anger. In his late twenties, Hoffman was tall, slim, with a mop of blond hair cut short at the sides. His left cheek was marked with a scar just above the cheekbone and his pale blue eyes had the cold, almost haunted look of a man who had seen much suffering, Hoffman was a career naval officer, a product of the naval academy at Kiel where he had been selected for service in U-boats.

Sitting on the edge of his bunk, with his head in his hands and tears in his eyes, he suddenly stood up. With a single swipe of his arm, and cursing loudly, he cleared the books and papers littering his small desk, hurling them across the tiny cabin. The only thing in his life that really mattered, other than his career, was his beloved wife, Elle, and now she had been cruelly taken away. Elle, a civilian, had been killed by enemy action while he, supposedly fighting a war, was sat on his backside in the safety of a dockyard hundreds of miles away.

It was Elle’s death that finally turned Kpt/Lt Hoffman against the war. Born out of pure hatred for the Third Reich and all it represented, he decided enough was enough. He wanted nothing more to do with it, but as a submariner and an officer of the U-Bootwaffe, he had to find an honourable way out. Suicide was impossible. What he needed was a plan, a plan that would neither discredit the service nor his honour as an officer and a gentleman.  Recovering a notepad from the papers and documents strewn across the deck, he set to work.

Chapter Three

Kpt/Lt Hoffman stood at one end of the oblong mahogany table, various papers strewn across the polished wood in front of him. Presently he stopped shuffling the papers and stood up straight, stretched his shoulder muscles and yawned. Seated around the table in the smoke-filled room of a small hotel in downtown Trondheim and waiting slightly impatiently for Hoffman to speak, were two men from U550, the Type VIIC U-boat Hoffman had taken command of three months earlier. The boat was now lying alongside the wall at Trondheim harbour.

The two men were both close friends of his whom he trusted implicitly.  The first was Oberleutenant zur See Günter Keller, his second-in-command. Hoffman first met Keller when they were together as cadets in the training ship SMS Schleswig-Holstein. Keller was a quiet man in his late twenties with short cut black hair, blue eyes and average build. Hoffman knew his friend could be relied upon when it mattered most. He could also be trusted never to reveal anything. The other man was the engine room senior rating, Chief Petty Officer Hans Schmidt. Schmidt was a stocky, blond haired twenty-seven year old from Lower Saxony. Having spent the last five years in U-boats, Schmidt was well acquainted with the bars and rough houses of Kiel, Bremen and Hamburg, where he managed to acquire a reputation for getting involved in bar-room brawls. Not that such behaviour had blighted his career. Far from it, his fighting prowess seemed to enhance his reputation amongst the men. They knew he would stand no nonsense from anyone but he was fair and would support his men through thick and thin.

Both Keller and Schmidt were in shirtsleeves, their jackets draped over the backs of their chairs. Looking relaxed and at ease, they were smoking heavily. Although the meeting was informal and the men were his friends, for the sake of appearances should anyone disturb their meeting, Hoffman maintained the usual formality that would be expected of a German naval officer.  Good morning, gentlemen. I expect you are wondering what this is about, eh? Smiling, he took a small map of north Norway and another showing part of northern Russia from the muddle of papers on the table and pinned them to a wall. The pretext for the meeting was the need to share highly classified information concerning their next patrol.  Whilst it was not unusual for a commanding officer to share such information with his officers, the risk of enemy agents gaining access to it meant that such briefings were usually conducted onboard, after the boat had sailed.  Despite the fact the meeting was unusual in that respect, neither Keller nor Schmidt had questioned it. For Hoffman’s part he knew the Allies had ears everywhere and was very well aware of the need for caution. He would have much preferred to have held the meeting in his small cabin onboard the boat but even onboard there was a risk that someone in the crew would overhear what he was about to say.  Therefore, and because naval personnel were a common sight in the town, he had decided to hold the meeting in a small hotel where it was far less likely they would rouse any suspicion, especially at ten o’clock in the morning. At least, he hoped that would be the case.

Keller and Schmidt studied the maps closely. They were maps, not nautical charts, and showed the coastal area of North Cape and Kola Inlet. They were intrigued. What use could submariners have for maps? Perhaps their skipper had devised some new strategy to attack the convoys.

Gentlemen, it has come to my attention that the Soviets are transporting gold by rail from Moscow, down here, he tapped the map with an index finger, to Murmansk, up here, he tapped the map again. 

The gold is payment for war supplies provided by the Allies to the Soviets and is for onward shipment in a British cruiser tasked to escort the allied convoys returning to the UK. As you can imagine, security is very tight.

Keller and Schmidt exchanged glances but said nothing.  Hoffman continued. However, security is only tight at the Moscow rail yard where the gold is loaded and at the rail head in the dockyard at Murmansk. Once the train leaves Moscow on its one thousand mile journey north, there are no guards.

Keller and Schmidt looked puzzled. Keller was first to speak. He used the shortened term for Kapitänleutnant But Kaleu why do we need to know this?

Hoffman looked Keller  straight in the eyes. Because, Lt Keller my friend, we are going to steal it. Well, not all of it but some of it.

Keller turned to Schmidt. Hear that, Schmidt? We are going to steal a train load of gold! Just like that!

Schmidt grinned. Well, maybe it’s not so crazy. Maybe it could be done. I take it we are going to attack the train, not sink the ship carrying the gold?

Hoffman nodded in agreement. Correct.  He pointed to a place on the map where the railway line ran almost parallel to the Norwegian border then continued, But we are not going to attack the train as such. We are only going to remove some of the goods it is carrying and provided we choose a spot just inside the Soviet border and on an incline where the train slows right down. We can do it!

Keller was amazed the Soviets would let such a valuable cargo go unescorted. He asked Hoffman how he knew the train was unguarded after leaving Moscow.

Never mind how I know but believe me, I know it’s true. The command has verified it, I assure you.

Keller was less sure. Surely there has to be a reason why the Soviets don’t guard the train once it has left Moscow!

Hoffman smiled. It’s because it is an ammunition train. As far as anyone knows, the train is only carrying ammunition for the warships escorting the convoys.

Keller looked puzzled. But if the Soviets are importing supplies, how can they be sending ammunition to the ships?

Hoffman grinned. It was most unusual for Keller not to understand something, no matter how devious. They aren’t. It only appears as if they are. The gold is packed in crates marked small arms ammunition. Apparently, when loading similar crates from a previous consignment into one of the British cruisers one was dropped. The crate burst open and several gold ingots fell out. We have an agent in the dockyard and he was on to it in a moment.  That’s how the command knows what is going on.

Hoffman smiled again. Let’s ask ourselves this.  On our next patrol we could lay in wait for the convoy then sink the ship carrying the gold but why should such a valuable cargo be sent to the bottom of the Barents Sea? I can think of a much better use for it.

Keller looked at Schmidt, who was now leaning forward on the table, totally absorbed in what Hoffman was saying.  Keller turned to Hoffman.  What do you mean? Steal it then give it to the Reich? Doesn’t our beloved Fuhrer have enough already? The three men were well aware that the Nazis were being accused of plundering anything valuable with the most senior officers allegedly helping themselves to whatever they fancied. It was widely rumoured that some of the higher ranks appeared to be doing very well indeed from the spoils of war.

Hoffman raised his hand to quieten Keller. No, not the Reich. That would be absurd. I was thinking of us. The three of us. We could make very good use of that gold. Or at least some of it.

Schmidt stubbed his cigarette in a glass ashtray. Keller stood up and walked over to the maps pinned to the wall. Sir, we are here, at Trondheim. The rail track is here, a good one thousand five hundred kilometres away to the east, inside the Soviet border. How do we get from here to there, then after we have taken the gold, get back here? It’s impossible! He shook his head and returned to his seat.

Hoffman ignored him for a moment while he removed the maps, rolled them up then placed them into a worn leather briefcase.  He sat down and looked at Keller.

It will be difficult, yes. Very difficult indeed – but not impossible.  Our glorious army is fighting the Soviet Army in the north. The railway line runs very close to the Norwegian border at a point just south of Murmansk. That area is almost totally deserted, apart from the fighting armies of course but they are some distance from where we will be. A small unit should be able to cross into Soviet territory and board the train without too much trouble. The train slows almost to walking pace when climbing the incline only a few miles inside Soviet territory.

Hoffman turned to Schmidt.

This briefcase,  he held up the bag, contains everything you need to know plus the various permits and documents you will need to make your way north.  You will select two men from your back aft party and following the instructions in here, relieve the train of part of a consignment. You will then drive to the rendezvous point marked on the map. In the meantime, Keller and I will embark on the next patrol as scheduled but instead of attacking enemy shipping we will make our way to Kirkenes where you and the gold will be waiting.

Bloody hell, Sir! Why me? How come I get all the good jobs? said Schmidt, grinning. Hoffman smiled.

Because you are the best I’ve got for this and I can trust you.

Schmidt thought the plan, as much as he knew of it at least, was sheer madness but for him it meant remaining ashore for at least two weeks, possibly more. He already had two men in mind. Keller lit a cigarette and inhaled.

OK, so what if this scheme of yours works? What then? We’ll have a boat full of gold in the middle of the Norwegian Sea in the middle of war!

Hoffman shrugged, as if handling the gold was of little importance.

Simple. We resume the patrol, sail to north Iceland and hide the gold in a deserted fjord. After that all we have to do is to ensure we survive the war then go back and collect it.

Keller almost choked. That’s all. Just like that. Hide the gold, survive the war then go back and collect it?

Well, not quite. We’ll have to surrender the boat and get taken prisoner, of course.

Surrender the boat! Are you out of your mind? 

Keller was aghast. Surrendering a U-boat was unheard of. 

You know what it means if we do that?

Hoffman knew full well what would happen if they surrendered the boat.  He knew he would have to make it look as if the boat was seriously damaged and at risk of sinking.

That is going to be the difficult part and I’m still working on it.

He looked at his watch. It was nearly eleven o’clock.

OK. Everyone happy?

Schmidt was not exactly ecstatic but he could see his options.

He thought it better to be doing something that if he survived the war would make him wealthy, rather than being drowned.

And since the Allies seemed to be gaining the upper hand in the U-boat war, the chances of being drowned were increasing with every patrol.  He nodded his approval.

Keller said nothing. The plan was totally ludicrous. To send a three man squad of submariners across hostile country to steal a consignment of enemy gold from a train inside enemy territory was completely and utterly insane. To hide the gold in their boat while crossing the North Atlantic, then conceal it in an Icelandic fjord before surrendering to the Allies went against all rational thought. Then to expect to survive the war so they could go back to recover the gold, assuming It was still there of course, beggared belief. Keller thought it better to keep his mouth shut. He just shook his head and hoped to goodness that his old friend knew what he was doing but he had an awful feeling the death of his wife had sent Hoffman over the edge. Satisfied the plan had been accepted, Hoffman declared the meeting closed.

Good meeting, gentlemen. Now let’s get back to the boat. We’ve got work to do.

Chapter Four

Hoffman had chosen the hotel because it was small, clean and cheap. The proprietor was not pro-Nazi but was smart enough not to discourage business from the Germans so Hoffman knew when he took the room there would be no outward animosity. But Hoffman was no fool. He was well aware that just about everything he did and said would be reported back to the Norwegian Resistance Movement. With his boat now out of refit and almost ready for sea Hoffman had taken weekend leave. He needed to prepare himself for the deadly business of attacking allied convoys carrying vital supplies to Murmansk and other ports in north Russia. The hotel was situated in central Trondheim, close by the Tinghus on Market Square and just about within walking distance of the dockyard so he was close enough to  return immediately to his boat should that be necessary. He hoped it wouldn’t be.

The naked woman laying next to him in the comfortable double bed was still fast asleep and breathing gently. She lay on her front with her dark hair spread across the pillow and her gorgeous body only partly covered by the quilt. He had met her in the hotel bar the night before and already they had made love, passionately, almost desperately, yet he didn't even know her name. His thoughts turned to Elle and how she had been killed in the air raid. Suddenly he felt deeply ashamed, as if he had betrayed her but Elle was dead and he soon could be. It was war and regrettable things happened in war. He rose from the bed and headed for the bathroom. After a quick wash he grabbed his white shirt from the back of the wooden chair in front of the dressing table and took a moment to study his reflection in the mirror. His hair needed cutting and he needed a shave. He could also do with losing a few pounds but at just under six feet he could carry the extra weight without too much of a problem. Besides, he could be sure the next patrol would soon get rid of any excess fat. As he finished dressing he thought briefly about the evening before and hoped that the drink hadn't made him talk too much. Fastening his shirt cuffs, he looked back at the still sleeping woman. She stirred gently but didn't wake. Gorgeous, he thought, great tits, nice ass and, as it turned out, a bloody good fuck as well.

It had all happened very quickly. She had approached him in the hotel bar to ask him for a light for her cigarette and he had taken it from there. All he remembered about the encounter was she had said she was Norwegian and although she hadn’t charged him, Hoffman knew she had to be a prostitute otherwise she would never have gone  with a German naval officer quite so readily. No matter. He had enjoyed it but now he regretted his actions. Christ. What a bloody stupid thing to do! She could so easily be an enemy agent. He silently reprimanded himself. One day he was going to make a costly mistake. Too much drink, an indiscreet comment, a snippet of information given without thinking. It was all to easy to fall into a trap and especially a honey trap.

He tried to push the negative thoughts to the back of his mind but one nagging doubt remained. What if she were a member of the Norwegian resistance? A plant? A beautiful woman using her charms to get the gullible to reveal information that would be transmitted to London and the Allies? But at twenty-eight years old, an officer in the U-Boot Waffe and a U-boat commander with the 3rd Flotilla, Kpt/Lt Eduard Hoffman was very confident in his abilities and sufficiently self-assured  to believe that he would not be caught out as easily as that. He had wanted her for sex, just as he had wanted a good meal, a drink and a couple of days away from the boat. Nothing more than that. After La Rochelle he was well versed in the ways of prostitutes and how they were employed by the Resistance. It would be no different in Trondheim or

anywhere else for that matter. He considered turning her over to the Gestapo but decided against it. He didn't need any publicity. Hoffman had told Keller where he would be should he be needed but as he had only taken a short leave of two days it was most unlikely that he would be recalled to the boat, even though the Tirpitz was in Aaltenfjord and attracting the daily attention of enemy reconnaissance aircraft.

U550 had recently completed a major refit and had performed well during the week of post-maintenance sea trials. Having satisfied himself there were no major defects and that the boat was, to all intents and purposes, ready for sea Hoffman had granted one week of shore leave to the majority of the ship’s company. Only a few essential personnel had remained on board, enough to ensure essential routines were maintained and the boat remained secure. The men on leave and the replacements for the five men killed during the last patrol would be joining the boat before 0600 the next morning. Although the new crew members would be experienced submariners and used to the type VllC, they would still need to familiarise themselves with U550 and this would reduce the boat’s efficiency for a while. But this should not be a problem. Kpt/Lt Hoffman had no intention of becoming embroiled in enemy action unless he absolutely had to. He was sick and tired of the war and had developed a plan to get himself out of it – alive – and the successful completion of that plan was far more important.

Hoffman moved to the window, pulled the curtains to one side and looked out at the. dark clouds moving slowly across a leaden sky. Sheets of freezing rain driven by the fierce wind blowing in from Trondheimsfjord hammered against the window panes. It was a miserable start to the day. His experience told him the weather wouldn’t change for a while but that had no bearing on the fact U550 would sail at 1000 the following morning regardless of the weather.  

Without saying goodbye to the girl he took his jacket from the hook behind the door, opened it, stepped out onto the landing then took the stairs down to reception. He settled the bill with a weary eyed receptionist then left the hotel.  Outside it was cold and very wet. Buttoning his uniform jacket, he looked around for a taxi but there were none to be seen. Hoffman did not fancy walking back to the dockyard in the pouring rain but resigning himself to the fact he would have no option but to walk he cursed his luck. Moments later German army truck turned into the square from Munkegata and came to a stop at the kerb. Hoffman crossed the road and walked briskly over to the lorry. He opened the cab door and without waiting for a reaction from the corporal at the wheel, climbed in. The man looked at Hoffman in surprised silence.

Dockyard? Asked Hoffman, although it was more like an order than a question.

No, Sir. I'm going to the prison.

Well, you will go to the prison via the dockyard. Drive on.

The driver immediately put down the clipboard full of papers he had been checking and with a low whine from the gears, the truck moved off.

Being this far north in November meant the daylight hours were very short and although it was now mid-morning it was barely daylight. The pouring rain and dark, overcast sky only added to the depressing grey twilight. As the truck drove through the deserted streets Hoffman reflected on the depressing fact that it would be dark again by three o'clock. He turned to the driver and shouting to be heard above the noise of the engine and whining gears, asked.

Where is everyone?

It's the weather, Sir. I think everyone is trying to stay out of this bloody rain.

Except the Army, eh? Hoffman smiled as he spoke.

Except us, sir. As usual.

The driver shouted the reply without taking his eyes off the road. The ride was uncomfortable and noisy but at least it was dry in the cab. After a few minutes the pale orange glow of the lamps illuminating the dockyard gates appeared through the half-light and rain. As the driver turned into the dockyard a sentry armed with a rifle stepped out of his sentry box and into the middle of the road. A flow of water cascaded off his cape as he raised his hand for the truck to halt.

Halt! As the truck stopped, the sentry approached the driver. Papers!

Hoffman leaned over towards the driver’s window.

Kpt/Lt Hoffman. U550. Here...

He handed his ID to the sentry. The soldier took it, read it carefully then looked up at the Hoffman, comparing his features with the photograph on the card. He handed back Hoffman’s ID card.

Thank you, Sir!

He stepped back, clicked his heels and extended his arm in a Nazi salute. Heil Hitler!

Hoffman groaned inwardly. He returned the salute with a vague wave of his hand and muttered a half-hearted Yes, yes, Heil Hitler.

The truck moved forward through the gate into the dockyard.

Where to, Sir? The driver looked at Hoffman.

Follow the road round to the right. Stop at the end.

The truck came to a halt by a derelict wooden shed still full of barrels and worn out fishing nets. The whole area stank of rotting fish and salt water. Hoffman jumped down from the truck and with a slightly brusque Very good, driver. Carry on with your duties! dismissed the truck and walked away.

As Hoffman looked at the sky he sniffed the air. After being alongside for five months he had become accustomed to the smells of the dockyard but with his plan in progress he was now eager to get back to sea. He pulled the collar of his jacket up around his neck then turned into the narrow alleyway separating the old shed from a recently built concrete office block. Ahead of him, just visible above the quay, he could see the part-hidden grey painted fin of U550. His boat was one of the infamous grey wolves responsible for decimating allied shipping running the gauntlet across the North Atlantic but in company with other boats of the 3rd Flotilla, U550 had been sent from La Rochelle in western France to Trondheim in Norway to menace the arctic convoys en route to Murmansk and other Soviet ports.

At the end of the alleyway he stopped briefly before walking briskly across the quay to step onto the brow leading down to the boat. Before stepping on the casing he was welcomed by the quartermaster guarding the open hatch at the top of the ladder that descended into the boat.

Welcome back, Sir. Good leave?

Good forty-eight hours, yes. Thank you, Schneider. Has everything been loaded?

Not yet, sir. One more delivery to come.  A truck bringing special stores from up north somewhere.

Any idea when it's due?

Hoffman sounded non-committal but cursed gently under his breath. It should be alongside by now.

No, sir.

OK.  Is Lt Keller aboard?

Yes, Sir.

Very good. Let me know when the truck arrives.

Hoffman descended the iron ladder to the control room then made his way aft to his small cabin. Tiny as it was he was the only person on board to have a cabin to himself. After the cold and wet outside he welcomed the snug warmth of the boat. After changing into his familiar sea rig of a shabby uniform jacket over a white seaman's jersey and an old pair of trousers, he set about catching up with some paperwork.

At six o'clock the following morning it was pitch black and still raining. Up on the forward part of the casing a squad of sailors stood in a huddle around an open hatch, their black oilskins and sou'westers glistening with water. Every now and then a passing vehicle would make them look up in hopeful anticipation. Hoffman appeared from below to walk hurriedly along the casing towards the group. They turned toward him as he approached. A Petty Officer snapped to attention and saluted.

Morning, Sir!

Hoffman returned the salute. At ease. The group relaxed.

Morning, PO. Bloody awful weather. Any sign of it yet?

The tide was in and the boat was now riding higher against the harbour wall.  Hoffman looked around the still-deserted quayside.  The Petty Officer gave a negative reply to Hoffman’s question.

No sir, not yet.

The Petty Officer was thoroughly pissed off. The watches had just changed over and there was still no sign of the truck. The men on this watch had turned-to at 0600 so had been waiting in the rain for only a few minutes yet every man looked cold, wet and miserable. Hoffman was not at all pleased.

The damn stores should be here by now.

He checked his watch once more.

Let me know the minute the bloody truck arrives.

What are we waiting for exactly, sir? The PO