Wreckers Must Breathe by Hammond Innes Page A

were sunken and red-rimmed. In fact, I looked a proper ruffian. I said so to Logan. ‘That’s nothing,’ he replied with a bitter laugh. ‘You wait till these bastards have been at you for a week. If the naval authorities here had control of the prisoners it wouldn’t be so bad. But you’re in the hands of the Gestapo. We’re going to have a helluva time.’
    He was right, of course—I knew that. But I felt he might have been a little more optimistic. As soon as we had completed our toilet, we were marched off to the guard-room, where we were introduced to another Gestapo agent who was presumably on the day turn. He was a little man with a large head and a sharp face. I liked him no better than the first. He picked up a green-coloured form from his desk, glanced through it and then led us down a narrow gallery that led off the guard-room and into the office of the commandant of the base. This was Commodore Thepe. He was a short thick-set man with greying hair and a fine head. He impressed me quite favourably and I recalled Big Logan’s words in the washroom.
    The Gestapo man conferred with the commodore for a time in low tones while we stood between our guards at the door. At length the commodore ordered us to approach his desk. ‘You know the Cornish coast—is that so?’ he asked Logan. He had a quiet precise way of speaking, but his English was not as good as that of the U-boat commander.
    Logan nodded, but said nothing.
    â€˜We are in possession of charts detailing all coastal information,’ he went on. ‘We have not, on the contrary, the fullest information about the rock formation and currents close in to the shore. This we require and you can give it to us, yes?’
    Logan shook his head slowly. He had a puzzled look, rather like a dog that has been refused a bone. ‘I don’t know,’ he said.
    â€˜You don’t know? Why?’ The commodore glanced at the form before him and then at Logan. ‘You are a fisherman, yes?’
    Logan was still looking puzzled. ‘Yes,’ he said hesitantly. ‘I believe so—I don’t know.’ I glanced at him, wondering what had come over him. I thought at first he was playing some deep game. But he had his hand to his head and he was rubbing his eyes as though he had just been woken from a deep sleep.
    The commodore looked at him closely. ‘You are a prisoner. You understand that?’
    Logan nodded. ‘Yes, your honour.’
    â€˜As a prisoner you must answer questions.’ The commodore spoke kindly as though to a child.
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Then come over here.’ The commodore led him over to a glass-topped cabinet in the corner. Beneath the glass was a chart. He slid this out and replaced it with one of the West Cornish coast from the files which filled the cabinet. ‘Here is Cadgwith,’ said the commodore, indicating a point on the map with his finger. ‘Now, are all the submerged rocks charted?’
    Logan did not answer, but just stood staring at the chart in a dazed kind of way.
    â€˜Are they or are they not?’ demanded the commodore, getting impatient.
    â€˜They may be,’ murmured Logan, lapsing into the slurred syllables of the Cornish dialect.
    â€˜Answer the Commodore’s question,’ ordered the Gestapo man, coming up behind Logan. He had a sharp penetrating voice and spoke English fluently.
    Logan looked round furtively, like a trapped beast. ‘I can’t,’ he said. And for a moment I thought he was going to burst into tears, his face was so puckered.
    â€˜Explain yourself,’ snapped the Gestapo man.
    â€˜I—I just can’t. That’s all. I don’t remember.’ And Logan suddenly turned and went blindly towards the door like a child in a panic. His breath was coming in great sobs as he passed me and I could see the tears running down into his beard. To see a grown man crying is always