Chapter 16
The three flights took two days, slowed by a broken oil cooler that had grounded them for twelve hours in Halifax. The B-24, designated Big Red by her nose art, touched down in America at six in the morning and deposited Thatcher on the tarmac of Westover Field in Massachusetts. To his surprise, he was informed that a message was waiting for him at Base Operations. He took his bag, thanked the crew, and trudged wearily across the ramp.
The American bomber had proven no more comfortable than the Lancasters Thatcher was familiar with. Deafeningly loud, it had a heavy vibration when the propellers weren't perfectly synchronized. This, complemented by a temperature well below the freezing point, had resulted in no sleep whatsoever during the journey. To top it off, Thatcher's head cold was ratcheting up. His throat was raw and his joints ached.
Base Operations was a small, hastily erected clapboard building that hardly owned up to its lofty title. Inside, he found an enlisted man at the reception desk. The soldier stiffened slightly, and Thatcher suspected he probably had no comprehension of British rank insignia. He put the man at ease.
"I'm Major Thatcher. I was told you have a message for me."
"Oh, yeah," the man smiled and began fishing into a drawer.
"Here you are, sir."
Thatcher unfolded the paper to find what he'd been hoping for: crew of u-801 held at fort devens massachusettes.
Sergeant Winters had done well, Thatcher thought. But nothing about Braun. In a perfect world they might have already found him. He turned back to the enlisted man. "How can I get to Fort Devens?"
"Devens? Its about eighty miles northeast, almost to Boston. If its on your orders, they'll set you up with a car at the motor pool. Otherwise, the bus station is a few blocks outside the main gate."
Thatchers initial reaction was to go with the bus, but as he walked out of Base Operations he decided that a car might speed things considerably. He'd always heard America was a big place and getting around might be a problem.
The sergeant in charge of the motor pool was of British descent, bored, and took right away to the amiable major who needed a car for a day or two of the king's business.
"I have a sedan, sir. The only thing is, I've got to have her back by midnight on the third day."
"Of course," Thatcher agreed, having no idea if he could keep the bargain.
Ten minutes later, map in hand, he drove out the main gate and concentrated on his driving. He owned a car, a dilapidated Austin 7, but since the start of the war he'd rarely driven it for lack of petrol. Now came the added complication of staying on the right side of the road.
Once comfortable, he allowed his eyes to drift to the surroundings. The traffic was heavy, like he'd only seen before in London, but absent were the bombed-out buildings, blackout curtains, and sand-bagged batteries of antiaircraft artillery. The stores along the street were all open and seemed well stocked with goods. There were signs of the war, of course. Soldiers strolled the sidewalks with girls on their arms, and patriotic posters were plastered in the shop windows. Still, he had the impression that the war's influence here was less direct, a distant threat that touched all but harmed few.
The drive to Fort Devens took over two hours. On arriving, his first order of business was to establish approval for an interview. Thatcher lacked any official, written authorization to conduct his investigation, so he tread lightly with the request. Fortunately, the camp commander was a disinterested sort who saw nothing wrong in an Allied officer pursuing a distant inquiry. "If you've come all this way," the man decided, "you must have a good reason."
Thatcher next talked to the captain who had already investigated the case. He confirmed that U-801's entire crew was incarcerated at Fort Devens, except for her executive officer, who'd been taken elsewhere for medical attention. He also learned there was no Alexander Braun on the crew roster. The American officer had questioned U-801's captain once, but the results were limited, giving Thatcher none of what he was after. Not wanting to waste time, he requested that Kapitanleutnant Jurgen Scholl be brought right up.
If the interrogation rooms at Handley Down were utilitarian, those at Fort Devens were minimalist. Inside a tent, three chairs sat on wet dirt. They were the folding metal type, sure to inflict equal discomfort to the backsides of all participants. The table separating the chairs was nothing more than a thin sheet of laminated wood resting crookedly on two uneven stacks of bricks. Thatcher took a seat and did not rise when Jurgen Scholl was guided into the room. The guard looked inquiringly at Thatcher, who shooed him off with a wave of his hand. "No need, Sergeant. You may wait outside."
The man did as instructed. Thatcher switched to German.
"Have a seat, Kapitanleutnant."
The Kriegsmarine man moved guardedly to a chair. He was small, slightly built, though not in the sense of being malnourished as were so many of the prisoners Thatcher had seen. He wore an unkempt beard, but behind the mask a pair of piercing blue eyes held strong. Thatcher reached into his pocket and offered up a cigarette and a light.
The German accepted with a nod of appreciation. "Thank you.
"I am Major Thatcher of the British Army. I am not assigned to this facility. Are they treating you and your crew well?"
Scholls eyes sparkled. "Each of my men has his own bunk, we shower every day, and the food is excellent. We might not wish to leave."
Thatcher smiled thinly. Civility established, he set his course. "I have come here seeking information about a man, and I think you may be able to help. After today, Captain, you will not see me again. That is, assuming what you offer is found to be — accurate."
The U-boat commander showed no reaction, and Thatcher realized that any attempt to instill fear would fall flat on this one. Years under the Atlantic had certainly deadened whatever nerves he still possessed. Other means would be necessary.
"You are from Kiel?" It was one of the few facts established from the previous session. That was where Jurgen Scholl would want to go.
"Yes."
"And you have a wife and son there?"
"Who knows." The German shrugged and took a long draw on his cigarette. "Major, tell me what it is you wish to know. The sooner we settle these things, the sooner we can all go home."
"Indeed." Thatcher leaned forward and interlaced his fingers on the wobbly table. "I wish to know about your last mission, the one that brought you here to America." Thatcher saw little reaction. "Did you deliver a spy?"
"Yes. A Wehrmacht captain. I do not know his name — not his real one. Our instructions were to make best speed and deposit him ashore at the place they call Long Island."
"And you did?"
"Yes. We received a message regarding the war's end only moments before the drop-off. The spy insisted on going ashore anyway. We sent him topside with his things and a raft, three miles out. It was the last we saw of him."
"I see. The conditions were good? The weather?"
"Nothing out of the ordinary."
"So in all likelihood this man is now in America."
"I suppose. And don't bother asking me what his mission was, Major. As I said, I did not even know his true name."
"All right." Thatcher raised his voice, "Sergeant!"
The guard peered in the door.
"I need the best map you can find of the United States. The northeast coast in particular."
"Yes, sir."
Thatcher turned back to the prisoner. "What did he look like?"
"Rather tall. Blond hair, blue eyes. And a scar, here." He drew a slash across his temple.
"Tell me, what time of day was this drop-off?"
"Shortly after dark. Once the drop was complete, we went back out to sea. However, I could not make contact with headquarters. We were very short on fuel and would never have made it back to Kiel. I thought it best for my men to surrender here."