Thunder Point

start of a handwritten paragraph in German, August 8, 1944. The rest made no sense to him as he didn’t speak the language. There was also a faded snap of a man in Kriegsmarine uniform. He looked about thirty and wore a number of medals, including the Knight’s Cross at his throat. Someone special, a real ace from the look of him.

The diary was also in German. The first entry was April 30, 1945, and he recognized the name, Bergen, knew that was a port in Norway. On the flyleaf was an entry he did understand. Korvettenkapitan Paul Friemel, U180, obviously the captain and owner of this diary.

Baker flicked through the pages, totally frustrated at being unable to decipher any of it. There were some twenty-seven entries, sometimes a page for each day, sometimes more. On some occasions there was a notation to indicate position, and he had little difficulty in seeing from those entries that the voyage had taken the submarine into the Atlantic and south to the Caribbean.

The strange thing was the fact that the final entry was dated May 28, 1945, and that didn’t make too much sense. Henry Baker had been sixteen years of age when the war in Europe had ended, and he recalled the events of those days with surprising clarity. The Russians had reached Berlin and reduced it to hell on earth, and Adolf Hitler, holed up in the Fuhrer Bunker at the Reich Chancellery, had committed suicide on May the 1st at 10:30 P.M. along with his wife of a few hours only, Eva Braun. That was the effective end of the Third Reich and capitulation had soon followed. If that were so, what in the hell was U180 doing in the Virgin Islands with a final log entry dated May 28?

If only he could speak German, and the further frustrating thing was that he didn’t know a soul in St. John who did. On the other hand, if he did, would he want to share such a secret? One thing was certain: If news of the submarine and its whereabouts got out, the place would be invaded within days.

He flicked through the pages again, paused suddenly and turned back a page. A name jumped out at him. Reichsleiter Martin Bormann. Baker’s excitement was intense. Martin Bormann, Head of the Nazi Party Chancellery and Secretary to the Fuhrer. Had he escaped from the Bunker at the end, or had he died trying to escape from Berlin? How many books had been written about that?

He turned the page idly and another name came out at him: the Duke of Windsor. Baker sat staring at the page, his throat dry, and then he very carefully closed the diary and put it back in the case with the letter and photos. He closed the lid, put the case in the wheelhouse and started the engines. Then he went and hauled in the anchor.

Whatever it was, it was heavy, had to be. He had a U-boat that had gone down in the Virgin Islands three weeks after the end of the war in Europe, a private diary kept by the captain which mentioned the most powerful man in Nazi Germany after Hitler, and the Duke of Windsor.

“My God, what have I got into?” he murmured.

He could go to the authorities, of course, the Coast Guard, for example, but it had been his find, that was the trouble, and he was reluctant to relinquish that. But what in the hell to do next, and then it came to him and he laughed out loud.

“Garth Travers, of course,” and he pushed up to full throttle and hurried back to St. John.

In 1951 as a Lieutenant in the U.S. Navy, Baker had been assigned as liaison officer to the British Royal Navy destroyer Persephone, which was when he had first met Garth Travers, a gunnery officer. Travers was on the fast track, had taken a degree in history at Oxford University, and the two young officers had made a firm friendship, cemented by five hours in the water one dark night off the Korean coast, which they’d spent hanging on to each other after a landing craft on which they’d been making a night drop with Royal Marine Commandos had hit a mine.

And Travers had gone on to great things, had retired a Rear Admiral. Since then he’d written several books on naval aspects of the Second World War, had translated a standard work on the Kriegsmarine from the German which Baker’s publishing house had published in the last year he’d been in the business. Travers was the man, no doubt about it.

He was close inshore to St. John now and saw another Sport Fisherman bearing down on him and he recognized the Sea Raider, Bob Carney’s boat. It slowed, turning toward him, and Baker slowed too. There were four people in the stern dressed for diving, three women and a man. Bob Carney was on the flying bridge.

“Morning, Henry,” he called. “Out early. Where you been?”

“French Cap.” Baker didn’t like lying to a friend but had no choice.

“Conditions good?”

“Excellent, millpond out there.”

“Fine.” Carney smiled and waved. “Take care, Henry.”

The Sea Raider moved away and Baker pushed up to full power and headed for Cruz Bay.

When he reached the house, he knew at once that Jenny wasn’t there because the jeep had gone. He checked his watch. Ten o’clock. Something must have come up to take her out. He went into the kitchen, got a beer from the icebox and went to his study, carrying the briefcase in one hand. He placed it on the desk, pulled his phone file across and leafed through it one-handed while he drank the beer. He found what he was looking for soon enough and checked his watch again. Ten after ten, which meant ten after three in the afternoon in London. He picked up the telephone and dialed.

In London it was raining, drumming against the windows of the house in Lord North Street where Rear Admiral Garth Travers sat in a chair by the fire in his book-lined study enjoying a cup of tea and reading the Times. When the phone rang, he made a face, but got up and went to the desk.

“Who am I talking to?”

“Garth? It’s Henry – Henry Baker.”

Travers sat down behind the desk. “Good God, Henry, you old sod. Are you in London?”

“No, I’m calling from St. John.”

“Sounds as if you’re in the next room.”

“Garth, I’ve got a problem, I thought you might be able to help. I’ve found a U-boat.”

“You’ve what?”

“An honest-to-God U-boat, out here in the Virgins, on a reef about eighty feet down. One-eighty was the number on the conning tower. It’s a type seven.”

Travers’ own excitement was extreme. “I’m not going to ask you if you’ve been drinking. But why on earth has no one discovered it before?”

“Garth, there are hundreds of wrecks in these waters; we don’t know the half of it. This is in a bad place, very dangerous. No one goes there. It’s half on a ledge which was protected by an overhang, or I miss my guess. There’s a lot of fresh damage to the cliff face. We’ve just had a hurricane.”

“So what condition is she in?”

“There was a gash in the hull and I managed to get in the control room. I found a briefcase in there, a watertight job in aluminium.”

“With a Kriegsmarine insignia engraved in the top right-hand corner?”

“That’s right!”

“Standard issue, fireproof and waterproof, all that sort of thing. What did you say the number was, one-eighty? Hang on a minute and I’ll look it up. I’ve got a book on one of my shelves that lists every U-boat commissioned by the Kriegsmarine during the War and what happened to them.”

“Okay.”

Baker waited patiently until Travers returned. “We’ve got a problem, old son, you’re certain this was a type seven?”

“Absolutely.”

“Well the problem is that one-eighty was a type nine, dispatched to Japan from France in August forty-four with technical supplies. She went down in the Bay of Biscay.”

“Is that so?” Baker said. “Well how does this grab you? I found the personal diary of a Korvettenkapitan Paul