Chapter 5
He reported first to the naval authorities in Hamburg, the great commercial port whose docks he knew by reputation through his office in Glasgow, but had not seen in decades. From there he was directed onward to Wilhelmshaven, the principal base of the Kaiserliche Marine on the North Sea.
Wilhelmshaven smelled of coal smoke, brine, and iron, and the port was busy with preparation as Germany mobilised in earnest. Grey battleships lay at anchor, signal flags snapping in the stiff wind, and cadets hurried between administrative buildings with folders under their arms. The air was optimistic.
The war would be over by Christmas, many believed.
Oskar presented himself at a low administrative building near the harbour basin, and was made to wait for two hours.
When finally summoned, he was shown into a narrow office with tall windows overlooking a line of destroyers.
Two officers sat behind a desk, one older, severe, with a narrow-moustache, the other younger, with a notebook open before him.
“Name?”
“Oskar Bauer.”
“Age?”
“Forty-six.”
“Place of birth?”
“Bremen.”
The older officer glanced up. Bremen meant merchant families, trade, and shipping, not the Prussian aristocracy that dominated the senior naval ranks.
“You have resided in Britain?”
“Yes, Herr Kapit?n. Twenty-eight years. Sixteen in Glasgow.”
“And the remaining twelve?”
“On the west coast of Scotland.”
Silence fell. The older officer steepled his fingers. “You understand, Herr Bauer, that extended residence in an enemy country invites questions.”
“I do.”
The man frowned. “And you have returned here to Germany.”
“Yes. As many Germans have. I came back last week to avoid registration and internment. I want to enlist in the navy.”
“I see. Are you married?”
He hesitated. “Separated.”
“And your wife? German?”
“Yes.”
“And she is where?”
“I believe she has also returned here.”
“Your occupation?”
“Shipping agent. Commercial routes, cargo contracts, west coast trade.”
The younger officer’s pen paused. “Sorry?”
“West coast,” Oskar repeated. “Scotland,” he clarified.
“Have you taken British citizenship?”
“No.”
“Have you sworn loyalty to the British Crown?”
“No.”
“Have you maintained correspondence with British officials since hostilities commenced?”
“No.”
The younger officer leaned forward slightly. “And your ability in English?”
“Fluent.”
Another silence. “And you’re familiar with which Scottish ports?” the older man asked at length.
“Glasgow, principally,” Oskar replied. “But also Oban, Mallaig, as well as smaller harbours along the western seaboard.”
“Were you aware of any defensive installations before you left?”
“No. But if employed, they will be minimal in the more remote regions. These are largely fishing communities; there was only sparse patrol presence before the war. The trade routes are concentrated southward.”
The older officer’s eyes narrowed. “You’re aware that providing intelligence of military value is now your duty to Germany?”
“I’ve assumed so.”
The man gave faint, almost imperceptible nod, and the questioning shifted. “What do you know of shipping volumes from the Clyde? Seasonal fishing patterns? Rail connections inland? Depth of anchorage in lesser-known coves?” he asked.
To each question, Oskar answered methodically. Information from his years in the Glasgow office returned with unexpected clarity - tide tables, harbour masters, coal depots, insurance routes, seasonal timber shipments, and the younger officer’s notes filled pages.
At length, the older officer leaned back. “You did not attempt to remain in Britain.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“As I mentioned, the position for German nationals living there has become untenable,” Oskar said carefully. “And my duty is here, to the motherland.”
The older officer regarded him for a long moment, then exchanged a look with his colleague.
“Our navy has need of men with practical maritime intelligence. Particularly those who understand British commercial patterns.” He opened a blank folder, and slid the younger man’s notes into it.
“You have no prior commissioned service?”
“No, Herr Kapit?n.”
“Nevertheless, under wartime provisions, a reserve commission may be granted where expertise warrants it,” he said decisively. “Your assignment will be attached to the Naval Intelligence Section. You will undergo a brief orientation. From there, you may be seconded.”
“Seconded?”
“To auxiliary operations.”
Within weeks, Oskar was shown into a building overlooking the grey sprawl of the harbour, and then into a large, high-ceilinged office.
A long table stretched before him. Maps of the North Sea were pinned along the walls, with lines of shipping lanes marked in coloured pencil.
Reports of intercepted wireless traffic, insurance data, and harbour sketches lay stacked on the table.
Through the tall windows he could see masts, signal flags, and the angular silhouettes of warships at anchor.
At one end of the table, behind the broad expanse of polished wood, sat a Korvettenkapit?n in a dark naval tunic, his cuffs grandly braided in gold.
A clerk sat to the side, his pen poised over a notebook. The officer did not rise.
“Herr Bauer.”
“Korvettenkapit?n.”
A file lay open before the officer, several pages bearing annotations in a precise, angular hand. He gestured for Oskar to sit, and then the questioning began again, the demand for more detail greater.
“I have the notes from your previous interview,” the man said. “You returned from Britain on the eleventh of August.”
“Yes.”
“You resided in Glasgow.”
“Yes. I was a senior shipping agent attached to McAlistair and Firth, Clyde exporters.”
“You were based in Glasgow for nearly twenty years.”
“Yes. Sixteen, to be precise.”
The officer glanced down. “And yet” - he turned a page - “in your previous interview, you reported extensive familiarity with the west coast of Scotland, of remote districts, and minor harbours.”
“That’s correct.”
“Explain.”
“I was both posted there from time to time, and I also stayed there.”
The officer’s eyebrows raised. “You stayed there,” he repeated in disbelief. “You say you were based in Glasgow, yet you speak as if you resided among rural peasants.”
“One cannot understand maritime trade from behind a desk,” Oskar replied evenly.
“So – you were on the west coast for business convenience?”
“Yes. For proximity to routes under my supervision. My position required oversight beyond Glasgow itself. The Clyde is the hub, but its spokes run north, south and west. Coastal steamers carry wool, fish, slate, and livestock. There’s timber from Argyll, and seasonal herring fleets.
Cargo consolidates at smaller ports before transfer to deep-draft vessels. ”
“And you personally inspected these ports?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because charts do not show rot in a pier, nor silting in a tidal basin. Nor whether a harbourmaster is competent.”
There was a brief pause. “You travelled there frequently?”
“Periodically. Particularly in spring and late summer.”
“Alone?”
“When necessary.”
The man glanced at a note. “You’re fluent in English.”
“Yes.”
The officer studied him in silence for a long moment.
“We are extremely interested in disrupting British coastal shipping,” he went on then.
“Not to mention laying mines, and submarine operations, perhaps raids on lightly defended ports. How much do you know of the remote Scottish west coast, exactly?”
“I know every supply route from the Clyde,” Oskar replied then.
“For the remote west coast, I could tell you which stretches would be minimally patrolled, and which piers would be poorly defended. I know every tidal movement, and if a vessel could lie concealed in such and such an inlet, or not, how often coastal traffic passes certain headlands, and which villages maintain telegraph links.”
The officer rose then, and strode over to a map on the wall, followed by the clerk and his note book, his eyes raking the rugged Scottish west coast. “And if I were to ask you about this - Lake - Lock – Ee-wee, for example?”
Oskar tried not to smile at the man’s stumbling pronunciation, and his heart leapt, for the man had just mentioned the loch on which Invermory sat.
“Ah. It’s a sea loch. It offers excellent anchorage,” he said.
“Suitable for destroyers, being a basin uncharacteristically wide, and also serviceable to light craft.”
“You’re certain?”
“Absolutely certain.”
The officer studied him again, more carefully. “And this - ” he turned back to the map again - “Sound of Mull? There have been many shipwrecks. How would one avoid running aground on the rocky coastline?”
“By favouring the northern coastline at half-tide, and reducing speed before the second bend if approaching from open water. That chart exaggerates the depth mid-channel,” Oskar replied.
Silence fell. The clerk paused in his writing, and the officer returned to the table, but did not sit.
“You speak with confidence.”
“I speak from experience.”
“You understand,” the man said evenly, “that such knowledge has military value.”
“So I’ve been told. The war exists whether I serve or not,” Oskar continued quietly. “If operations occur in waters I know, they will occur with or without my counsel. I should prefer that they occur with accurate information.”
A shadow of near-approval crossed the officer’s face, and he studied Oskar for a long moment. “You believe you would reduce error on the part of our navy?”
“Yes.”
“And you believe yourself capable of objectivity?”
“Yes.”
“And if action were required against a harbour you have visited? A pier upon which you have stood?”
Oskar paused. Or a beach on which I have made love to my beloved Rachel? he thought. “I would expect the British to act without hesitation against German ports,” he said. “I would expect no less of my own navy.”
The officer’s eyes narrowed slightly. “That’s not quite an answer,” he stated.
“It’s the only honest one.”
Silence filled the large room. The officer crossed to a window, looking out over the berthed ships.
“We’re compiling assessments of lightly defended coasts,” he said.
“Fuel depots, signalling stations, patrol patterns.” He turned to face Oskar.
“You would submit written memoranda detailing the western approaches to the coastlines that we ask of you, with particular attention to tidal behaviour and potential landing points for small craft.”
“I understand.”
“And you would omit nothing.”
“Absolutely not.”
The officer returned to the table. “One further matter. If our vessels were to operate near the point at which you stayed, you would not attempt to warn civilians?”
Absolutely not,” Oskar repeated.
The officer held his eyes a moment longer, looking for a flicker, but saw none.
“Very well. Your familiarity would seem to prove operationally useful; your prior maritime experience will be reviewed for possible attachment to auxiliary operations. You’ll report here tomorrow at eight.
” He closed the file. “For now, Herr Bauer, welcome home.”
Oskar bowed his head curtly. “Thank you, Korvettenkapit?n.” When he stepped back out into the salt-thick air of the harbour, he heard the low thrum of battleship engines preparing for departure.
He stood for a moment, looking at the grey sweep of water, and gave a deep, sad sigh.
Already, the Scottish coastline on which their tiny, precious croft cottage stood had been reduced to nothing but depth measurements, prevailing winds, and possible landing sites.
By October of nineteen hundred and fourteen, Oskar had received formal notification of his commission as Leutnant zur See der Reserve.
Because of his age, he was not placed aboard a battleship of the High Seas Fleet, but was attached to a converted merchant vessel undergoing discreet modification in a Baltic yard - an auxiliary cruiser intended for commerce raiding.
Its outward lines remained civilian; below deck, armament and full German navy uniforms were concealed.
Oskar stood on the deck as fittings were completed, watching the German dockworkers move with practised efficiency.
The ship’s funnels still bore traces of her former commercial livery; soon, even that would change - this ship was being disguised to look Danish - harmlessly neutral.
The captain, Heinrich Adler, a career naval officer in his fifties with slate-grey hair, regarded Oskar coolly on their first meeting.
“So, you’re the one who knows Scotland.”
“I know parts of it. The west coast.”
“We may have occasion to test that knowledge,” the captain told him, the implication clear.
Operationally useful he would be. The phrase returned to him; Germany required British shipping intelligence, coastal familiarity, and English fluency - he had offered all three.
Whether the German navy would truly send vessels into the dangerous waters off the west coast of Scotland was another matter entirely.
He knew that those seas would tighten under British patrol, and that risks to any German ship would multiply daily.
Yet in planning rooms, possibilities were discussed: commerce raiding, coastal reconnaissance, mine-laying operations, and signal contact.
And each time the Scottish western coast was mentioned, someone would glance at him.
“You’ve been there.”
“Yes.”
A finger would point to a map. “Would a lantern show from this headland?”
“Yes.”
“Would it be seen?”
“If one knew where to look.”
The war, still young, felt vast but distant, and to Oskar, it narrowed to a single, indisputable fact - he now wore the uniform of the Kaiserliche Marine.
He thought of Rachel then, his stubborn Scottish lassie who had chosen to remain in their little croft cottage on that remote, western shore, and wondered what she would think if she saw him now.
He did not write to her; he could not. But in the quiet of his small cabin he unfolded, again and again in his mind, the mental map of a lonely stretch of coast - the curve of the bay, and the narrow sheep track to their little love nest by the beach.
The land on which their idyllic, cherished refuge stood, had now become, in the language of war, terrain.