Dark Voyage (30 page)

A long, melancholy afternoon with, now, a slow, steady rain. The
Noordendam
dropped anchor, Schumpel returned to
M
56, for consultation and a W/T report to headquarters, then came back to the ship and told DeHaan the freighter would be taken under guard to the naval base at Dragr on the Danish coast.

DeHaan remained in the wardroom as the ship was searched, waiting for them to find the weapons—the Browning automatic and the rifle—and wondering what they’d do to him when they were discovered. Of course he’d had some vague notion of retaking the ship, had lied instinctively—a foolish way to lie—and now regretted it. Still, what did it matter? They might beat him up a little, but not too much—he was, after all, a prize fish in their net. What else would they find? Not much. After all, you couldn’t really search a ship like the
Noordendam
unless you had a week and fifty clever men with screwdrivers, it was nothing
but
hiding places.

They did, of course, using the ship’s roster, find the officers, and the wardroom became a holding cell, guarded by a sailor with a rifle.         First came Ratter, still barefoot, then Kees and Mr. Ali, followed by Poulsen. Kovacz did not appear, neither did Kolb. They’d evidently hidden themselves, for the time being, as had Shtern, who was brought to the wardroom with his hands tied behind his back and a swelling bruise under one eye. As for the German communists and Republican Spaniards, DeHaan could only speculate. Safe for the moment, he thought—there were no politics in seamen’s papers—though investigation in Denmark might tell another story. As prisoners of the
Kriegsmarine
they had at least a chance of survival but, if the Gestapo chose to involve itself, they were finished. And, DeHaan had to admit to himself, once that happened, the station at Smygehuk was also finished. The crew of the
Noordendam
was brave but, under the Gestapo’s methods of interrogation, the truth would be told.

It was Schumpel himself who escorted Maria Bromen to the wardroom, and his irritated glance at DeHaan said more than he realized. Had she worked on him? Maybe. As she came through the door their eyes met, for an instant, but not to say farewell.
It’s not over,
she meant, even though, and they both knew it, once they were taken off the
Noordendam,
they would never see each other again.

1550 hours. Off Falsterbo headland.

DeHaan was led up to the bridge, in preparation for the voyage to Dragr, and it was there that Schumpel confronted him with a list of
Noordendam
’s sins. Item one: they’d found a pistol in the locker of the fireman Hemstra. If the Leutnant expected a reaction to this he was disappointed, because DeHaan was mystified and showed it. Hemstra? Plain, quiet, hardworking Hemstra? So, the Leutnant said, DeHaan had nothing to say? Very well, then item two: the chief engineer, Kovacz, was missing, as was the passenger S. Kolb. Any idea where they might be? Quite truthfully, DeHaan said he didn’t know.

“We shall find them,” Schumpel said. “Unless they’ve jumped into the sea. In which case, good riddance.”

From here, Schumpel proceeded to item three. “We are unable to find your codebook,” he said.

“I ordered it thrown overboard,” DeHaan said. “As captain of an allied merchant vessel, that was my obligation.”

“Ordered who, Captain, the radio officer?”

DeHaan did not speak.

“If you say nothing, we will assume that to be the case.”

“I acted under the rules of war, Leutnant. A German officer would behave no differently.”

That made Schumpel angry, the skin over his cheekbones turning pink—a captured codebook would have been the cherry on top of his triumph. But he could only say, “So, it’s the radio officer. We’ll let him know you told us.” He had more to add, but one of the German sailors came to the bridge and handed him a message, saying, “The cutter brought it over, sir.”

Schumpel read his message, then said to DeHaan, “You will remain on the bridge,” and, to the ape, “Watch him carefully.”

So, the two of them stood there, while Schumpel went off toward the gangway. And stood there. From the bridge, DeHaan could see the Leutnant, sitting at attention in the stern of the cutter as it made its way through the rain back to
M
56. And, twenty minutes later, after the ape had rejected a very tentative attempt at conversation, DeHaan discovered how Kolb had managed to disappear.

With some admiration. Kolb, accompanied by a German guard, was walking along the deck, headed, perhaps, for the crew’s quarters. Or, more likely, for the galley, because Kolb was wearing the filthiest cook’s apron DeHaan had ever seen and, on his head, a freighter cook’s traditional headgear—a paper bag with the rim folded up.

In rain, beneath overcast skies, the afternoon had turned to early dusk by the time Schumpel returned. When he reached the bridge, DeHaan saw that he was virtually glowing with excitement. “We are going to Germany,” he said.

It took some effort, but DeHaan showed no reaction.

“To the naval base at Warnemnde.”
To heaven, to be serenaded by a chorus of angels.
“It turns out that this
Noordendam
is”—he paused, looking for the right words—“of interest,” he said at last. “To certain people.”

Again, DeHaan didn’t answer, but Schumpel was observant.

“Don’t like it, do you,” he said. “If you would care to guess why, some reason for this interest, I will do for you one favor.”

The bar in Algeciras, Hoek in his office, S. Kolb.
“I don’t know why,” DeHaan said.

“This level of interest, is not usual.”

“I can’t help you, Leutnant.”

Schumpel was disappointed. “Very well,” he said. “I have ordered a helmsman sent to the bridge, and a crew to the engine room. Your course is south-southwest, compass bearing one nine zero. What is your best speed?”

“Eleven knots. In calm seas.”

“You will go ten, my ship will escort us.”

DeHaan calculated quickly. Under a hundred nautical miles to the Baltic coast of Germany, ten hours. A lot could happen in ten hours. DeHaan looked at his watch, it was ten minutes after five.

The helmsman appeared a few minutes later, as DeHaan signaled to the engine room. “Hello, Scheldt,” he said.

“Cap’n.”

“We’ll come about, then bear south-southwest at one nine zero.” Outside, the sound of a winch engine, and the anchor being hauled in. “For Warnemnde, Scheldt.”

“Aye-aye, sir.”

Back to normal, life on the bridge of the
Noordendam
. Scheldt giving the wheel a quarter turn every few minutes in order to stay on course, the engine drumming away down below, DeHaan smoking one of his small cigars.
No ships sighted. All well on board.
Schumpel paced the bridge, making sure, now and again, that the compass bearing was as he’d ordered, then looking out at the
M
56, black smoke streaming from her funnel as she chugged along in escort position, some three hundred yards off their stern quarter. The ape with the submachine gun leaned against the bulkhead, bored, with long hours of voyage ahead of him.

For DeHaan, the hours were even longer. He’d done his best, but the odds had caught up with them and what had begun in Tangier, two months earlier, was now finished. He said this to himself again and again, though he knew it meant surrender, true surrender, the end of hope. And he fought it—his imagination produced a coast watcher on Falsterbo, alerting the Royal Navy, who just then had a submarine beneath this Baltic sea-lane.
A sudden storm, an exploding boiler.
Or Ratter, and the officers in the wardroom, who rushed their guard, then retook the ship with the hidden weapons. That last was not beyond possibility, though, if it was somehow accomplished, they would soon enough be blown to pieces by the minesweeper’s 105-millimeter cannon. But this was, at least, an honorable end, better than what awaited them in Germany. Interrogation, execution.

So his mind wandered, this way and that, from salvation to despair and back again. No point, really, except that it sometimes kept him from thinking about Maria Bromen, which, every time, brought with it a very bitter truth. Which was not that he had loved and lost her, but that he could not save her.

2035 hours. At sea.

“Where did you grow up, Captain?” Schumpel said.

“In Rotterdam.”

“Oh? I have never been there.”

“It’s a port city, typical, like many others.”

“Like Hamburg.”

“Yes, or Le Havre.”

“Perhaps you will see Rostock, where there is a central administration.”

“I’ve put in there—up the estuary from Warnemnde.”

“I suspect you won’t go by ship, this time. Perhaps by automobile.”

“Perhaps.”

“Oh, I think you will.”

He was quiet after that, pacing back and forth, looking at his watch, while, on the bridge, life went on as usual—the green glow of the binnacle light, the helmsman at the wheel, the mess boy bringing coffee.

But not the everyday service. Now that they had guests, Cornelius had brought up a full pot of coffee though, true to his Corneliusian soul, he had forgotten the lid, so the coffee steamed in the damp air. But, at least, for a change, hot coffee. And Cornelius was not alone—he was assisted by Xanos, the Greek stowaway from Crete, poor little man, who wore a grimy white steward’s jacket and carried a tray of cups and saucers, and who was so nervous at this new job that his hands shook and the china rattled.

Schumpel was delighted. “Ah now, here you are more civilized than I thought.”

“Coffee, sir?” Xanos said. For this important occasion, someone had taught him the German words.

“Yes, thank you, I’ll have a cup.”

Xanos held out the tray, Schumpel took a cup and saucer, then Cornelius filled it with coffee. The aroma was strong and delicious on the smoky bridge. Schumpel turned to DeHaan and said, “You will join me?”

DeHaan said he would, but Xanos’s nerves got the best of him, and the tray slipped from his hands and the crockery went clattering to the deck. A startling event, to Schumpel, very startling, because he said, “Hah!” as though he’d been slapped on the back, and threw his cup and saucer in the air, the coffee splashing on his white shirt. But he didn’t care so much about the shirt, because he turned his head and looked over his shoulder and, as Xanos leapt away, drew in a long breath through clenched teeth and twisted his head back the other way, his eyes wide with panic. Xanos stepped behind him and did something with his hand, then Schumpel said, “Ach,” sank to his knees, tilted slowly, and toppled forward, with a loud thump as his forehead hit the deck.

On the other side of the bridge, the ape shouted, and DeHaan turned toward him. Head steaming, he howled and pressed his free hand to his eyes, while Cornelius stood gaping at him, the empty coffeepot dangling upside down from his fingers. Then the submachine gun swung toward him and he dropped the pot and grabbed the barrel with both hands and hung on for dear life, shoes sliding across the deck as he was spun around. The two of them circled twice before DeHaan and Scheldt got there. DeHaan drew his fist back but Scheldt shoved him aside and did it himself, three or four shots, bone on bone and loud. The last one worked, and as Cornelius fell backward with the gun clutched to his chest, the ape mumbled, “Leave me alone,” and sat down.

Scheldt stood over him, shaking his hand and grimacing with pain. “Pardon, Cap’n,” he said.

“Get the wheel,” DeHaan said. If they drifted off course, the captain on
M
56 would know something had gone wrong. DeHaan went over to Schumpel, who was still kneeling, his forehead resting on the deck, the hilt of a knife fixed between his shoulder blades. A kitchen knife? No, DeHaan saw that the handle was wrapped with tape, a killing weapon. “Thank you, Xanos,” DeHaan said. “Also you, Cornelius.”

“It was the little passenger,” Cornelius said. “He drew it on a piece of paper. Just like you told him to.”

“Where is he?”

“In the galley. He’s peeling potatoes. For hours, Cap’n, pounds and pounds of ’em.”

“Where are the other Germans, Cornelius, do you know?”

Cornelius’s face knotted with concentration and he licked his lips. “He said to tell you, if the plan worked out, that there’s one in the radio room.” He thought for a moment, then said, “A signalman—he told me to tell you that. And I know there’s two of them in the crew’s quarters.”

And one in the wardroom, and certainly two in the engine room.
DeHaan looked aft. Out in the darkness, the lights of
M
56 bobbed up and down in the swell, keeping station off their starboard quarter. DeHaan knelt beside Schumpel’s body and slid his pistol, a heavy automatic with a short barrel, out of its holster. Xanos said a Greek word and pointed—the ape was trying to crawl out the door. DeHaan and Cornelius stopped him, then Cornelius got a length of line from the signal-flag rack and DeHaan tied his hands and feet, wrapping a signal flag around his head and knotting its cord in back. “If you move, we’ll throw you overboard. Understood?”

“Yes,” the man said, his voice muffled by the flag.

DeHaan put the pistol in his pocket, then picked up the submachine gun and handed it to Scheldt, who stood it on its stock by the helm. For DeHaan, there was a strong temptation to free the captives in the wardroom, but he couldn’t take the chance. So far, there’d been no gunfire, which meant that the signalman in the radio room had not been alerted, so communication between the
Noordendam
and
M
56 was the next problem that had to be solved. And, eventually, they would have to deal with
M
56 itself, by force or by subterfuge. Board it? Ram it?
Somehow,
he told himself. “Stay sharp on one nine zero,” he told Scheldt. “I’m leaving you and Xanos in charge of the prisoner, and the bridge. So, if any German shows up here, you can use that weapon. You better have a look at it.”

Beckoning Cornelius to follow him, DeHaan left the bridge on the port wing—the side concealed from the view of the
M
56. Quietly, they moved along the deck to the door of the radio office. It was closed. Locked? He wouldn’t know until he tried. But, if he had to shoot the man inside, the wardroom guard would be alerted. DeHaan took the pistol from his pocket and examined it.
J. P. Sauer & Sohn, Suhl
was stamped on the barrel, then
CAL 7,65,
and it had a safety, operated by a thumb lever. He pushed the lever up, so the safety was off, then found a catch behind the trigger. What did it do? He didn’t know. This didn’t work like his Browning, but he assumed that with the safety off, the weapon would fire when he pulled the trigger. He detached the magazine, counted eight rounds in the clip, then snapped it back in place. “Stay behind me,” he told Cornelius.