A combination of cold, damp air and the chill of fear. Everything he had worked so hard for, to rise through the ranks and serve the Reich, had now been thrown away. He was a common thief and a deserter, the lowest and most despised form of life any soldier could sink to.
Franz gazed around at the frantic activity as men and vehicles carried out re-arming and provisioning on the submarines, whilst others worked on welding and repairing the blitzed and strafed hulls and superstructure.
He spotted Kapitänleutnant Helmut Witte supervising operations from the conning tower.
Feeling for his fake orders tucked inside his tunic, close to his pounding heart, Franz pulled them out and glanced through them. He was rehearsing in his mind how the meeting would go, as he strode aboard, purposefully and with certainty of authority.
Kapitänleutnant Helmut Witte eyed Kaltman with both suspicion and curiosity as he took his forged copy of Großadmiral Karl Dönitz’ orders. He opened them and read through. Franz studied the man’s face for hints of trouble, but saw raised eyebrows of extreme surprise and the partially open mouth of astonishment.
Witte looked at Kaltman and then at the two trucks. The shrewd U-boat commander was actually wondering how the cargo could be fitted in at this late stage. He had a full load of his own. It was not as though he could off load anything because once he had undertaken Kaltman’s mission, he had to continue with his original assignment.
“I need to see what your trucks contain, Grupenfurer Kaltman. If I am to fit in your cargo, I need to see what space it will require. Are there perishables or fragile items for example?” Witte had a knowing look on his face as he hinted at the possibility that there might be artworks involved. Although unaware of much that was happening in Germany, because of his long absence at sea, some things were common gossip.
“I am not at liberty to say too much, but there are 10 tonnes of bullion in crates. The other packages are both perishable and fragile.”
“Ah! That is the sort of information that I can work with.” Witte called down in the hull for an officer. The eager man received his instructions and summoned men to carry the load aboard.
“I will have to open the bullion crates and add the contents to the ballast. We can continue doing that as we get under way. The rest I will stow wherever I can fit it in. The crew’s bunks will have to be utilised.” Kapitänleutnant Witte didn’t sound at all pleased. However, he had no option but to acquiesce.
Franz nervously paced the dark stained teak decking of U-159, chain smoking and saying his prayers, while the treasure was being loaded into the large type IXC submarine. His prayers begged for a lapse in German efficiency, to absorb the 6-hour shortfall in his timing.
Suddenly a loud commotion startled him. He looked up at the sound of revving engines rapidly approaching. His guts churned with utter dread - SS and soldiers in vehicles, were charging along the dockside towards him…
Alan Patterson, a 30-year-old entrepreneur, looked up from a bulky, stale smelling box file of German World War II records. Benny Markowitz, a Russian researcher of similar age, rushed excitedly towards him, clutching photo copies of crucial documents. Amongst them was an order from Karl Dönitz, head of the German Navy.
Benny could barely contain his excitement. His weasely, whiney voice started as a squeaky whisper, rising in volume to a loud outburst. The thick Russian accent severely hindered the clarity of what he had to say. “Alan, I have here de proof that Grupenfurer Franz Kaltman left Lorient aboard U-159 on 12th June 1943.”
Other researchers in the room, unravelling mysteries of their own, shushed him with annoyance. They resented having their concentration shattered, but more than that, the prospect that this shifty, bespectacled weed of a man had obviously got lucky.
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