A Bridge Of Magpies (8 page)

'Hydrophone operator to Captain: two groups of propeller noises merging. Confused echoes, sir.'

`Damn! The closer they get the tougher our problem becomes. Down periscope a shade! The AMC's blocking our shot at the frigate-Number One! I can't fire like this. Damn and blast! Hold it! Hold the attack!'

'They sound right on top of us, sir.'

'That's the AMC. I could spit on board. If she rolls over now, we've had it.'

'Hydrophone operator to Captain: Sir, warship's screws close! Dead astern!'

'Here she comes! I can't shoot like this! Sweet Jesus, give me
a
firing angle!
Stand by, all! Hang on! Stand by for depth
charge attack!'

'Sir

'Gott in Himmel!
What hit us?

'You okay, sir?'

'All right, aJl right, Number One. Got chucked against the eyepiece, that's all. Eight bloody depth charges!'

'You're bleeding, sir ..

Ìt's nothing, Number One. He'll come back! Damage reports–quick!'

'All compartments report damage, sir. But still in action.'

'Give me a
look! She's coming about! This is our chance!

Stand by! Stand by! Continuous reading! Flood tubes, open doors!'

54

'Flood tubes, open doors it is, sir!'

'Bring her round,
bring her round,
Number One!' '

Fire both stern tubes!'

'Fire!'

'Torpedoes running, sir!'

°Time, coxswain?'

'Zero minus three, four, five, six, seven, eight ... nineteen, twenty . .
.•

'Jesus!
Her magazine's gone up!
That's knocked the bugger off, all right!'

'Two right up her jack, sir!'

'Christ! For Chrissake, Number One, what hit us then?' '

Dunno, sir. Right on top of the conning-tower. Must be something big blown off the frigate.'

'Big as a bloody locomotive! Maybe one of her own gun turrets! Damage party! Here! At the double!'

'It's slipping clear whatever it is, sir–listen, scraping the casing – there! It's gone!'

'Periscope?

'Out of action, sir.'

'Stand by, the bridge patty!'

'It's no good, sir. The hatch is jammed fast. Can't move it!' '

We must get the hell out of here–quick, Number One!

They'll have seen that explosion fifty miles away! Damage reports –
schnell!
Is she making water?'

'All valves on the outer hull reported loose in their Beatings, sir. Main ballast pumps out of action. Angle gauge wrecked. Telemotor and gyro compass systems out of action.'

'Those depth charges couldn't have come closer! Engineroom, what does the Chief say?'

'Plenty, sir. Starboard diesel ripped off its bed, camshaft snapped ..

'The port engine–is it okay?'

'Okay. Electrics okay too.'

'Gut!
Group up, half ahead, together. Steer three-four-o.' '

She's badly down by the head, sir. With the gauge gone, we'll have to trip her by guesswork. The change-over valve's jammed open. I guess it's smashed too.'

'We can't see and we can just about move, Number One. But we've got to get out of here: this channel's a death-trap. Silence, that man!'

'It's the Jap again, sir. He's protesting. Says we're ratting
55

on the mission. The important guy got left behind when the dinghy chased after us.'

'Tell
him
to save his breath
and
the oxygen! He can't get out of this boat now –no one can. Where's the AMC?'

'Must have fetched up ashore by now, sir. That magazine blast killed the sound of everything else.'

'Poor bastards! It might have been us,'

'It might still
be,
sir.'

'Keep your voice down,
Number One 1
I
want an immediate
signal
sent to BdU–is the radio still working?'

'Yes, sir. About the only thing left that is.'

'Say,
"U-160
to BdU. Attacked by frigate. Flower
class,
which blew
up following two hits ex stern tubes.
U-160's main
ballast pumps damaged, unable to dive. Jettisoned eight mines. Proceeding seawards partly submerged. Will signaJ position and damage assessment 06.00 hours dawn tomorrow." Well, Number One, what
is
it?'

'Sir! Radio operator reports ship-to-shore voice radio
has been
transmitting to Swakop throughout the attack!
In
the
panic somebody forgot to switch it off!'

'I'll
have his guts for that! What a giveaway! No wonder the frigate came right at us–he must have heard every word inside the sub and homed
in
on our signaJs! Switch the damn thing off –
now!'

56

As if on cue, the recording cut out.

I opened my eyes. The girl was kneeling on the rock platform above, holding my rifle. She handled it as though it might bite her. Her hands were all in the wrong places and the muzzle pointed at the sky: at least it wasn't trained on me. Our eyes met across the blue-black line of the barrel. She eyed me with the intense fascinated compulsion you reserve for a dangerous snake emerging from its hole, when you don't know whether it or the weapon in your hand is worse.

I took all this in
as
I got to my feet. 'The iron gun in the iron hand,' I mocked.

She seemed to find it hard to speak properly because her lip muscles were out of control.

'What do you want? Why are you spying on me?' '

Not spying; just investigating.'

Her face closed up in blankness. 'I didn't say that. I ....' '

Yes?'

'I spotted you in the compass mirror, peering
over the
edge of the rock-' she jerked out. 'Your hair was blowing all over the place . .'

'I must remember to have my barber fix it before I set out on my next spying mission:

'I'm serious,'

The barrier of tension between us was
as
real as an elec. tric fence. I felt it was time I got my gun out of those inexpert hands. It was loaded, but the safety catch was on. I was quite sure she didn't mean to threaten me with it: she'd only grabbed it because it was there. Anyway-the time for finesse was past.

I
vaulted up alongside her and took the weapon away.
She
didn't resist. I think she was glad to be rid of it.

'It's always better to be the shooter than the shootee,' I quipped.

'Who are you?'

°That can wait. The question is, who are you? What sort 57

of sound-track is that you've got there – radio? Television?'

She stared back, uncomprehending. She was operating on quite another wavelength from me. She blinked rapidly. Her right eye seemed to have some grains of sand in one corner and there were traces of face-powder stuck in her polo-neck sweater. After her hair her eyes were her best feature, seagreen with flecks of light in them. She seemed younger than I. about thirty.

`This place is off limits? I said. 'Diamond territory.
Ver-
boten.
That coven stunt recorders as well. I asserted it emphatically but in my own mind that didn't quite include the maps and other things I'd seen. She wasn't with me
yet: she
was still living with something in the recording.

`Stunt? That's when I was born: she replied,

Ìf that's so, all I can say
is
that the language of maternity wards has caught up with the permissive age.'

She made a stagey, throwaway
gesture at
the tape-recorder that underlined the first conclusion I'd jumped to,
'I
mean –

born. When the liner was hit.'

'You artistes live out your scripts, don't you? But don't get too carried away. When you come back to earth you'll discover that the bit of Sperrgebiet you're standing on is very expensive. It could cost you a thousand-dollar fine or a year in jail.'

She remained tense and uptight. 'My name's Jutta Walsh. I was born thirty-one years ago today in a boat which rescued the liner's passengers. Here, at
the
Bridge of Magpies. No one ever found out who the rescuer was because he disappeared next day. My mother died. That liner's
a part
of me! Nothing's going to stop me going aboard het That Includes you!'

'My name's Santa Claus–alias Struan Weddell. I'm headman of that island over there. It's Christmas Day today.'

The touch of colour that came into her cheeks wasn't from windburn. My sarcasm, however, didn't break down her defiant attitude. She regarded me in silence, with coal hostility.

'I know how you got here: Kaptein Denny? I went on. '

There's no debate about this territory. It's Sperrgebiet, and on the Sperrgebiet you're guilty until you can prove yourself innocent What I'm trying to say is that I don't have to 58

listen to your reasons in order to clobber you. Being here
is
enough in itself, but I realize show-biz is a hen of a razzmatazz and you've got to have local colour to pay off. The sound effects on your tape are good-very good.'

'Listen to me clearly! I tell you I way born here! The
City of Baroda
was carrying women and children to the Cape. My mother was pregnant . „'

'Babies are born that way.'

`The shock of the U-boat attack brought on labour. I was a month premature.'

'Congratulations on your script. That sort of soap opera should be a wow over the air. But here you've no audience to cry over it. Even the birds have gone. You'll have to get out.'

She remained strained and intent. 'You've got it all wrong. Believe me-what you overheard on the tape
happened
in
real life, a long time back. What you call sound effects are actual battle noises radioed from inside
a
Uboat which was in action and fighting for its life. Those men-all of them-died later, '

'And I'm U-boat Admiral Donitz in person.'

'You stupid thick-headed dot!' she blazed. 'You're plain bloody-minded and stubborn.'

'Cops usually are,'

'You're a cop?'

'Sort of.'

'Blinded by your job.'

'I'm new. Now get your things together and march! Back to my boat! I'll see you aboard
Gaok;

'First I'm going aboard that
liner.'

'Says who?'

'I've come a long way, and I've waited
a
long time, I'm going aboard.'

'The hell
you
are!'

She tried to push past but I grabbed her. The force of her rush took us among her books and maps. I knocked over the compass and trod on a chart.

The damn-you expression went from her eyes in a split second; just
as
Sperrgebiet fog changes the colour of the light. In it's place was genuine appeal and a touch of des, peration that wasn't play-acting. I knew then that I'd misjudged her: I found
myself
believing her story. 59

'Please!' she burst cut 'Please–those are priceless!'

She didn't put her hands above her head to signal surrender but the way she picked up one of the books and held it out to me said the same thing. It was titled
Nuremberg
Trials, Vol. XIII.
There were a couple of other
similar
ones. She also handed me a paper with neat hand-written columns of figures, dates and names. It
was
headed, Ù-boats which operated in South African waters 1939-1945'. There was another. 'U-boat types, class, tonnage, speed, armament, range'–and a sheaf of other papers, including photocopies and official-looking letters. The map I'd trodden on turned out to be a naval chart of the Possession channel, annotated in German.

We became intensely conscious of one another. '

Your work?'

'Yes.'

'The illusion of war.'

'You could call it that'

Ìt's more than that, though.'

'It's more than that.'

I made a sweeping gesture which took in the collection and tape recorder. 'In old cathedrals people listen to tape '

explaining the architecture and art they're looking at-but I wouldn't have thought the Sperrgebiet qualified for the same treatment.'

She stayed silent for a few moments. Maybe, I thought, she was weighing my remark
as a
good let-out However, I discounted my suspicions about that the moment she replied. Her voice was warm, and revealed how grateful she was I'd accepted her story
as
24-carat

'I hadn't thought of it in those terms but mine's the same
sort
of idea–if you put the site of a naval battle in place of
a
cathedral. The lecture was going fine–until you showed up.''I was–am–trying to head you away from trouble.' '

Thanks. There wasn't anyone around. I thought I'd get away with it?

'You have?

'What do you mean?

'If I accompany you it's okay. This shoreline's part of my pad. Possession's my ship: I'm a sort of re-tread captain. Let's go and look at the wreck together.'

60

'I can't begin to thank you ..

'Call me Struan: that'll be thanks enough.'

'Struan.'

'Is
this a pilgrimage or a picnic, Jutta?'

'Something of both, I guess.'

She didn't go into that. Nor did she explain further her sight-and-sound set-up when we collected the documents and books and put heavy stones on top of them to keep them from blowing while we were away at the wreck. They made a formidable, and interesting, pile of documentation,

'You've done a lot of homework, Jutta.'

'Yes. It took years?

Again, no more. She smiled, though, and I was pleased to see the pinched look go from her face. I left the explanations for later.

We traversed the dome of rock which comprises Doodenstadt, winding and back-tracking through the 'streets' to get to our objective. The strange geological formation projected into the sea on one hand and into the desert on the other. At shoe-leather distance the lost city impressed me still less. We couldn't board the liner from the landward side. You could have driven a train through the torpedo holes in her. It was a miracle she'd stayed afloat long enough to be beached. Also-it must have been
a
spring tide that put her high up where she was.