‘All right, Ian.’ Godfrey picked up a silver paper knife from his desk and waved the point lazily at Fleming: ‘And in the meantime, let’s hope he’s as sharp as he thinks he is.’
35
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
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.
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
‘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.
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
