… I will take heed to my ways that I offend not in my tongue. I will keep my mouth as it were with a bridle while the ungodly is in my sight…
The priest’s voice was strong and musical for one so bent by age. He had followed the little cortege with unsteady step to the north-east corner of Stapley churchyard and was standing beside a freshly dug mound of earth. Gathered about him was a score of blue and khaki uniforms and beneath the canopy of a yew tree close by, an honour guard of military policemen in their red caps.
… I held my tongue and spake nothing: I kept silence, yea, even from good words but it was pain and grief to me…
It was a perfect summer’s day and the old and the very young from Stapley village and the neighbouring farms were at the drystone wall of the churchyard to witness the spectacle. The Germans were in their full service blue and hanging from the throat of their commanding officer was the red, white and black ribbon of the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross. Someone recognised him from the paper as the ruthless Nazi responsible for sinking more than twenty British ships.
Deliver me from all mine offences and make me not a rebuke unto the foolish…
Kapitan zur See Jurgen Mohr glanced at the Prayer Book in the shaking hands of the clergyman, then down to the coffin at his feet, draped in the white ensign of the Royal Navy. It was a pity the British would not permit them to use their own battle flag. Still, they had agreed to bury August Heine with full military honours. He would have been gratified to know that his commander and comrades were going to these lengths after such an unseemly end. It was three weeks since they had cut him down from the washroom pipe, tired weeks of questions and recriminations. The Military Police had been unpleasant but reassuringly incompetent.
The priest finished the psalm and handed the Prayer Book to a village youth in a grubby surplice, then took a step back from the grave and nodded to the camp commander. Major Ronald Benson cleared his throat — German was a trial: ‘I would like to express my deep sadness and regret at the passing of a brave young man, a sadness we all feel at Number One Stapley. We stand here — British and German side by side — united in mourning for Leutnant Heine, and together we remember his family in our prayers.’
Benson paused to look across at Mohr: ‘I would like to invite Leutnant Heine’s commanding officer to say a few words.’
Mohr had prepared his few words, a short speech about loyalty, the comradeship of the boat, honour, but standing at the grave, his shoes heavy with earth, those sentiments seemed trite and careless. He wanted to turn and walk away, to be alone. And yet what else was there? He had brought his own officers from the U-112; Fischer was there with his men and there were one or two others, fifteen prisoners altogether. They were all looking at him, expecting him to say something in praise of Heine’s life and to make sense of his death. Dietrich was standing at his right hand, his head bowed in a pretence of prayer, and beside him Schmidt, the curly-haired second officer of the 500. To their right, he could see Bruns, his own navigator. These were the men to speak of sacrifice and loyalty, their faith in Germany unshakable, ruthless in its service.
When he spoke, his voice was as strong as it should be: ‘Men of the U-boat arm. Our comrade, Leutnant Heine, has fallen and is to be buried here in foreign soil. He was no less a casualty of this war than his brothers who have died at sea. His heart was always that of a true German, loyal to his Fatherland and to his Fuhrer. We honour his sacrifice and we salute him now, confident that the victory he desired above all will come soon.’
And those empty, meaningless words were all Mohr could think of to say. Fortunately, he was relieved of any further obligation by Major Benson, who had clearly heard quite enough about a German victory.
‘All right, get on with it, Vicar.’
Four British soldiers stepped smartly forward to carefully fold the white ensign, then they took up positions on either side of the grave.
Man that is born of woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery…
The plain pine coffin began to disappear a few gentle inches at a time. It seemed to Mohr that no one was greatly affected, there were no tears. Those who might have cried over the body of August Heine did not even know he was dead.
Thou knowest, Lord, the secrets of our hearts…
It was a shame the British were not able to find a Lutheran pastor but he did not object to the words of the English Prayer Book. The dead man would not have understood them in any case. The coffin reached the bottom of the muddy trench and the soldiers stood to attention, the ropes still taut in their hands. Benson gave the order and the guard of honour stepped forward with rifles at the ready. Gunfire rang out around the churchyard and a baby by the wall began to wail; a second ragged volley followed, and then a third and sharp cordite smoke drifted across the grave. Mohr could taste it in his mouth. He bent to pick up a handful of earth.
… earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust…
It rattled and bounced on the coffin lid. The others stepped forward in their turn, hands stained by the earth from the grave: Gretschel, the 112 ’s first officer, Koch and Bruns and young Bischoff, the midshipman, then Fischer and his men. The last to reach for a handful of soil was the propaganda reporter, Helmut Lange. Mohr watched him standing there, squeezing it hard in his fist, forcing the dirt through his fingers. He hovered at the muddy lip of the grave, his face frozen in some sort of trance. And the seconds began to slip away. Major Benson cleared his throat pointedly and the priest laid a hand on Lange’s arm. He shook it free. Was Lange losing his mind? It was too late for the dead man’s mercy.
‘Come on there.’
The old priest tried to comfort him again. Someone coughed uneasily, heads were down and Mohr could sense the men closest to him shuffling from one foot to another. Lange was embarrassing them all.
‘Leutnant Lange.’ Mohr spoke his name firmly.
Lange looked up at last and slowly turned his head towards them. And Mohr could see that his dark eyes were cloudy and distant, his cheeks stained with tears. So there was someone there to weep after all. Then Lange shuddered a little and closed his eyes. And when he opened them again it was plain to Mohr that he was with them once more. It was the face of a different man, no longer frozen but alive. And it was full of contempt and fear and loathing.
Lange’s fistful of earth clattered on to the coffin lid with disturbing force. There were astonished gasps from those watching at the churchyard wall. Mohr stepped forward at once and took him firmly by the arm:
‘Leutnant Lange. Please.’ And he turned to whisper to Fischer: ‘Hold him.’
Major Benson nodded anxiously to the priest.
… for that it hath pleased thee to deliver this our brother out of the miseries of this sinful world…
And it was over in minutes. The priest closed his prayer book and stood back from the grave. Mohr breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps that was an end to the matter and they could bury the truth with Heine in this quiet country churchyard. He would have to speak to the propaganda reporter again. Lange had made an exhibition of himself and that was dangerous. Fischer was leading him away.
‘Kapitan Mohr, if you and your men would make your way to the truck.’ Benson was beside him with the soldiers of the honour guard. It was an end to the brotherhood of arms.
‘Certainly, Major.’
A couple of squaddies were resting on spades beneath the east window of the church, their sleeves rolled up ready. With the last of the mourners they would begin shovelling and scraping the earth back into the grave, beating it down hard with their spades. At their feet was a simple wooden cross with Heine’s full name and rank painted carefully in black Gothic script. For a time it would look strange among the grey lichen-covered stones but Heine’s name would be lost within ten Lakeland winters and the cross would rot and fall within ten more.
The old priest was waiting at the gate to shake Mohr’s hand and say a few words. Major Benson and his men were standing a little beyond it at the tailgate of the covered lorry that would take them back to the camp. Most of his men were already inside but he was in no hurry join them. Young faces bobbed up at the wall to peer at him and giggle but Mohr did not mind; it was refreshing, he felt a sort of freedom in the churchyard. A car horn sounded a short distance away. A military Humber was edging on to the muddy verge to pass a tractor which a farmer had parked carelessly in the lane.
‘I’m sorry about your young lieutenant.’ The priest’s handshake was limp and cold, his face a liverish white, the ghostly colour of a U-boat engineer after weeks without natural light. ‘He was so far from home.’
‘Yes.’
‘I understand from Major Benson that you don’t have your own pastor at the camp, Captain.’
‘No.’
The Humber roared, its wheels spinning wildly, throwing soggy divots across the road.
‘I would be prepared to take a service from time to time — in English, I’m afraid, I speak very little German.’
The passenger door flew open and a naval officer climbed awkwardly out. He spoke briefly to the driver then began walking by the church wall towards them. His face was lost beneath the shadow of his peaked cap but Mohr recognised him at once.
‘Thank you. I will speak to my men.’
He turned from the priest and walked through the gate to the truck. Helping hands reached down to pull him into the back and the guards lifted the tailgate and pushed the pins into place. He was a prisoner again. They sat in silence, shoulder to shoulder on the benches, studying their shoes, listening to the English voices a few feet away.
‘… Yes, Lieutenant Lindsay, we were expecting to see you yesterday.’
There was no warmth in Benson’s voice.
‘I’m sorry I missed the funeral.’
‘Shall we meet in an hour with the camp IO, Lieutenant Duncan — he’s a Scotsman too by the way.’
‘Thank you. I would like to begin at once…’
There was a grinding roar and the lorry began to shudder. The driver engaged the clutch and it rattled forward a few feet. Mohr leant across the body of the truck. There was at least one other person who recognised that soft Scottish voice. Lange was sitting at the end of the bench opposite. He seemed to have made himself very small in the shadows. His knee was bouncing anxiously, his hands restless; his face was turned away but Mohr could see that he was biting his lip. Mohr turned back to the mouth of the truck. Through an evil cloud of exhaust, he watched as Lindsay picked his way between the headstones. The soldiers were bent over their spades, dark patches of perspiration on their shirts, and most of the conical mound of earth above the grave had already gone. Lindsay stood and watched them for a few seconds, then bent to pick up something at his feet. It was the wooden cross. He turned it over to read the inscription.
The engine roared again and the truck lurched forward, throwing Mohr against his neighbour. He reached up for a canopy pole to steady himself. When he looked again Lindsay was staring back at him, the cross still in his hands. The truck was gathering speed and in a matter of seconds the churchyard was lost from view, but those troubling few seconds were in Mohr’s thoughts for the rest of the day.
The camp commander’s office was in the old lodge at the entrance to the park, a comfortable distance from the enemy. Lindsay was shown up to a dingy little waiting room on the first floor. An orderly was leaving with the remains of the Major’s lunch and he left the door ajar. Benson was grumbling volubly.
‘… it’s disruptive and quite unnecessary, but I’ve been ordered to do all I can for him.’
The Major’s secretary gave Lindsay an embarrassed smile and slipped out from behind her desk to knock at his door.
Benson was a tall, heavily built man in his early forties with a florid complexion and glassy limpid eyes. He was a drinker. Lindsay noticed his hand tremble a little when he stepped forward to shake it. Beside him was the camp’s intelligence officer.
‘Lieutenant Duncan will be able to help you with the details of the case,’ said Benson, waving airily at the files on his desk. ‘It’s not often Naval Intelligence gets involved in this sort of matter.’ The frostiness in his very military voice suggested that this was altogether a good thing.
Duncan greeted him with a warmer smile. They sat at Benson’s desk and he ordered some coffee.
It was a ‘tragic’ but ‘straightforward’ business, he said. He had seen it happen before. Some men just fell apart behind the wire and Heine was the type.
Lindsay raised his eyebrows: ‘Really?’
‘The senior German officers had been watching him for some time. He was very highly strung.’
Duncan shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
‘The Military Police found nothing suspicious,’ said Benson, ‘and I don’t expect you to.’
The clinking of cups at the door signalled the arrival of coffee. Lindsay glanced over at Duncan. He was in his early thirties, stocky, with bad skin and curly black hair. He reminded Lindsay of the senior foreman at his father’s works in Glasgow. There was something in his watchful silence and tight body language that suggested he did not see eye to eye with the commander of the camp.
‘I expect you would like to see how we found him?’
Benson reached for an envelope and drew out a bundle of photographs. He waited until his secretary had left the office, then handed them to Lindsay: ‘Not pretty.’
Heine was dangling from the pipe like a broken carnival puppet. His face was swollen and twisted, his tongue lolling thick and blue from his mouth. His feet were only inches from the washroom floor and in the corner of the photograph there was an upturned chair. His arms hung freely at his sides. It was an undignified way to depart this earth.
‘He killed himself a little before morning roll call when the washroom was sure to be empty and his body was discovered almost as soon as it was over.’
‘And the police think he took his own life?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you agree?’
‘Of course. There was no evidence to suggest his arms and legs had been tied at any point. His neck wasn’t broken — the poor fellow strangled himself.’
Benson pulled a face: ‘A ghastly way to go; his mind must have been completely unhinged.’
Duncan gave a pointed little cough. Lindsay turned to look at him.
‘There were the bruises on his face and body, sir.’
His tone was measured, his accent reassuringly familiar, like a Glaswegian bank manager, the sort your grandmother might trust with her life savings.
‘He received those injuries in a fight with one of the other prisoners,’ said Benson, addressing Lindsay only. He was clearly irritated. He was the sort of man who expected life to tick like a clock, each little cog in the mechanism turning beautifully on to the next in a predictable well-ordered movement. And the camp was his empire — he was going to guard its reputation jealously. ‘You will find the details of the fight in the statements here.’ He laid his hand on the files in front of him. ‘Duncan will take you through them.’
He pushed his chair back suddenly and got to his feet. There were other things he wanted to attend to in the camp, he explained. Lindsay wondered if he needed a drink.
Lieutenant Duncan breathed a sigh of relief as the door closed behind him.
‘You’re the intelligence officer. What do you think?’ Lindsay asked at once.
Duncan looked at him cautiously: ‘I don’t know if he took his own life but I don’t think he got those bruises in a fight. I can’t prove anything because none of the prisoners will talk to me — not even the friendly ones. A fellow called Schmidt — he was with the 500 — came forward to say he got into an argument with Heine. Mohr brought him to us. But neither of them would tell us what it was about.’
‘And the police?’
‘Why spend time on a dead German? Aren’t we trying to kill them by the thousands?’
‘Is that your view too?’
‘No. I helped cut him down.’
Lindsay nodded in acknowledgement, then asked, after a moment’s thought: ‘Don’t you have a trustee, an informer inside the camp, one of the prisoners?’
‘No. It’s very tight.’
Rising from his chair Lindsay walked slowly over to the window. They were changing the guard at the gate and along the perimeter wire. An elderly-looking sergeant was barking aggressively at his men, every bristling inch the parade-ground martinet. It was the Army at its most senseless. And it seemed to Lindsay that the wire and the guard offered no sort of challenge to a resourceful prisoner intent on escape, but where was there to run to here?
‘Do you think he was murdered?’ Duncan asked.
‘Do you?’
‘I don’t know. But I am sure they are all lying about the fight.’
‘Mohr?’
‘Oh, he just said it was regrettable…’
‘No. What do you think of him?’
‘Major Benson is impressed.’ There was a barely disguised note of contempt in Duncan’s voice.
‘And you?’
Duncan shrugged: ‘I think he knows how to get what he wants. The Altestenrat runs this place.’
‘The Altestenrat?’
‘The council of the eldest — the three senior prisoners.’
Lindsay turned away from the window and walked back to the desk. ‘I’d better look at the statement Mohr gave the investigating officers and the other ones they collected too.’
It took a little under an hour to read them all. Lieutenant Duncan returned at four o’clock with tea and a few damp biscuits. The military investigators had taken statements from all the officers of the U-112, Heine’s room-mates and one or two prisoners who were known to have been on good terms with the dead man. No one was very forthcoming. There was the suggestion more than once that Heine was struggling with captivity and close to breaking. The second officer of the 112, Schmidt, repeated that he had had an argument with Heine and it had ‘boiled over’. He refused to give any more details. The first officer of the 112, Gretschel, said he had barely spoken to Heine since arriving at the camp and he knew nothing of a fight, but he would remember him as a good and dedicated comrade. ‘This sentiment was expressed with a great deal of feeling,’ the investigator had noted. Mohr’s statement was cooler. Heine was ‘young’, Heine was ‘highly strung’, Heine was ‘close to cracking’ before he became a prisoner. And Mohr implied that he had nursed him through two fraught war patrols that had shredded the young engineer’s nerves and then the trauma of the sinking. He said he had not been surprised to learn that Heine had picked a fight with another prisoner.
Lindsay flicked through the statements again, then tossed them back on Benson’s desk. ‘With the exception of Gretschel, there isn’t much warmth in these, is there? And I don’t recognise Heine.’ He picked up his cigarettes and leant forward to offer them to Duncan.
‘Do you know a man called Lange? Leutnant zur See Helmut Lange?’