iron pirate (25 page)

Stroheim stared at him. 'You knew?'

‘Guessed.
She came to my ship as you know. I should have realised why she had come, I ought not to have had
doubts,
eh?'

Stroheim said quietly, 'You would not be the first one to be deceived, Captain. She would have claimed that the child was yours.'

Hechler looked away. How could anyone hate the sea?

He said, 'Thank you for your company.'

Stroheim moved away as Kapitanleutnant Emmler, the assistant gunnery officer, clumped on to the bridge to take over the first Dog Watch.

As he reached the internal companion ladder he heard Hechler call after him. He turned and said, 'Captain?'

Hechler merely said, 'Between us.'

Stroheim nodded, suddenly moved by the man's quiet sincerity. 'Of course. Until the next time.'

Hechler faced the ocean again and wondered why he had spoken so freely with the doctor.

He had not needed to demand an answer from him about Inger, it had been plain on his face. But in his heart he had also known it, and that was what hurt the most.

The tiny cabin was more like a store or ship's chandlery than a place to live and sleep. There were shelves, jam-packed with wire strops, spare lashings and blocks. Mysterious boxes were wedged beneath the bunk, and the air was heavy with paint, spunyarn and tobacco smoke.

Rolf Brezinka sat cross-legged on the bunk, a huge pipe jutting from his jaw. The cabin was very hot, the air ducts switched to a minimum flow, and he wore only his singlet and some patched working trousers. As boatswain he stood alone, between wardroom and petty officers' mess. One of a dying breed, he often said, a man who could turn his hand to any form of seamanship, who could splice wire or hemp with equal skill, and who knew the ship's hull like his own battered face.

Opposite him, a cigar jammed in one corner of his mouth, was Oskar Tripz, the grey-haired petty officer. They were old friends, and although both had given most of their lives to the navy, they had each served in the merchant service between the wars, and more to the point in the crack Hamburg-Amerika Line.

When Brezinka had been drafted to the
Prinz Luitpold
he had pulled strings to get his old comrade and fellow conspirator posted to her too. The strings he pulled were unorthodox, but carried no less power than the brass at headquarters.

'It's asking a lot, Oskar.'
Puff. puff.
The big, crop-headed boatswain eyed him grimly through the smoke. 'We've taken a few risks, but I don't know about this one.'

Tripz grinned. At first he had thought of ignoring it, of telling young Stoecker some cock-and-bull yarn to set his mind at ease. Then, the more he had thought about it, the less of a risk it had become. Those cases contained loot, there was no other word for it. Tripz had served in a destroyer in the Norwegian campaign and had seen senior officers shipping their stolen booty back to Germany. They came down like an avalanche on any poor sailor who so much as lifted a bottle of beer without permission. It was all wrong. Leitner must be in it up to his neck, although a ship was the last place Tripz would have stored it, unless he could not trust anybody.

He said, 'Suppose we're wrong? Maybe all the boxes are full of papers, secret files and the like,' He could see that Brezinka did not think so either. ‘If we are, we'll drop it right there.'

Brezinka removed the pipe and shook it at him. 'You bloody rogue!' He grinned. 'How
could
we have a look-see? The place is guarded, day and night, and we don't want half the ship's company getting involved. I'm an old bugger, but not ready for the firing party just yet, thank you very much!'

Nor me.' Tripz rubbed his chin. 'The only time the place is left without a sentry is -'

The boatswain frowned. 'I know. When the ship is closed up at action stations, you in your turret, and me in damage-control. No, mate, it just won't work.'

Tripz sighed. 'What about Rudi Hammer?'

The boatswain stared incredulously. 'Mad Rudi? You must be as crazy as he is!'

Hammer was a petty officer with the damage-control party and on the face of it, the obvious choice. He was no boot-licker, not even a Party member, and although he said very little, was liked by almost everyone, perhaps because of his eccentricity. His hobby was glass. He was determined to retain his skills as a glazier, in spite of all his mechanical training, and nothing could deter him. His divisional officer had had him on the carpet several times about scrounging glass and cluttering his mess with it; he had even taken him in front of Theil because of it. Glass was dangerous in a confined space, especially if the ship was suddenly called to action.

It made no difference. Some hinted that Rudi Hammer s apparent dedication was his way of staying sane, not the other way round.

Brezinka persisted, 'You couldn't rely on him, Oskar, he might blow the whole plan to the executive officer.'

Tripz shook his head. 'He hates officers, you know that, Rolf.'

But, but -' Brezinka grappled for words. 'It makes me sweat, just thinking about it. No, we'd best forget the whole idea.'

Tripz said, 'If Rudi has any doubts, you know who he goes to?'

The boatswain swallowed hard. 'Well, me.'

'Exactly.' He leaned over to stub out the cigar. I'll put it to him. The rest is up to you.' He knew that his friend was wavering. Look, Rolf, we've been through a lot together. Remember the time we sold that fishing boat to a Yank, when it belonged to the harbour master?'

The boatswain grinned sadly. 'It would have meant jail in those days, not the chop.'

'They'll dump us when this lot's over. Like last time. I don't want to end up on the scrap heap, begging for bread, do you?'

Brezinka nodded firmly. 'No. You're bloody right, old friend. Let's just have a peep at the boxes.' He winked. 'Just for the hell of it.'

They both laughed and then solemnly shook hands.

'Mad Rudi it is.'

She lay as before propped up on pillows, her face pale in the bunk light.

Hechler heard Stroheim's orderly leave the cabin and after a slight hesitation sat down beside the bunk.

She watched him and said, 'You look tired.'

He saw that she had placed her hands under the sheet. In case he might touch one, he thought.

'How are you feeling?'

She smiled. 'The motion is awful. I was nearly sick.' She saw his concern and added, 'I'm feeling better. Really.'

Hechler heard the dull clatter of equipment, the buzz of a telephone somewhere. Perhaps for him. No, the red handset by the bunk was silent. Mocking him.

He explained how the ship was moving s!owly
^r
to reach their rendezvous at the right time.

She listened in silence, her eyes never leaving his face.

'Don't you get tired of it?' She reached out from beneath the sheet and gripped his hand. 'It never ends for you, does it?'

He looked at her hand, as he had on the bridge that first time. Small but strong. He found he was squeezing it in his own.

'You know about the plan to fly off our Arados ahead of the ship?'

She nodded. 'Yes. The admiral came down to see me.' She seemed to sense he was about to withdraw his hand and said, 'No. Stay like this, please.'

Hechler grimaced. 'I am behaving like an idiot again.'

She returned his grip and smiled at him. 'A nice idiot.'

He asked, 'Can it be done?' He had pictured the two pilots missing their way, flying on and on before they fell into the sea.

She seemed surprised, touched that he should ask.

She replied, 'Yes, they could find it. After that

Hechler pushed it from his thoughts and said, 'I want you to be well again very soon.' He studied her face, feature by feature. 'My little bird belongs up there, where she is free.' He smiled and added, 'I wish

She saw his hesitation and asked softly,'You wish I was not here, is that it? You are going to fight, sooner or later, and you are afraid for me?' She tried to raise herself but fell back again. 'Do you think I cannot tell what is going on in that mind of yours? I have watched you, listened to what your men say, I gather fragments about you, because it is all I have!' She shook her head against the pillow. Don't you
see,
you stupid man, I want you to
like
me!' She was sobbing now, the tears cutting down her cheeks and on to the pillow. 'And I look a mess. How could you feel more than you do?'

Hechler placed his hand under her head and turned it towards him. Her hair felt damp, and he saw a pulse jumping in her throat, so that he wanted to press her tightly against him and forget the hopelessness of it, the drag of the ship around them. He dabbed her face with the corner of the sheet and murmured, 'I dare not use my filthy handkerchief!' He saw her staring up at him, her lips parted as he continued quickly, 'You do not look a mess. You couldn't, even if you wanted to.' He touched her face and pushed some hair from her eyes. 'And 1 do like you.' He tried to remain calm. 'More than I should. What chance -'

She touch his mouth with her fingers. 'Don't say it. Not now. The world is falling down about us. Let us hold on to what we have.' She pulled herself closer to him until her hair was against his face.

'You came for me. I shall never forget. I wanted you to know.'

It was more than enough for her and he could feel the drowsiness coming over her again as if it was his own.

He lowered her to the pillow and adjusted the sheets under her chin. In the adjoining cabin he heard the orderly humming loudly, a warning perhaps that the doctor was on his rounds.

Then he bent over and kissed her lightly on the mouth.

A telephone buzzed in the other cabin and he turned to face the door as the white-coated orderly peered in at him.

The Admiral, sir.'

Hechler nodded and glanced down again at her face. She was asleep, a small smile still hovering at the corners of her mouth.

Hold on to what we have.

He found he could accept it, when moments earlier he had believed that he had nothing left to hold on to.

Revelations

Acting Commodore James Cook Hemrose trained his binoculars towards the oncoming cruiser and watched as she started to swing round in a wide arc, in readiness to take station astern of the
Pallas.

It should have been a proud, satisfying moment. The newcomer was the third ship in his squadron, the
Rhodesia,
a graceful vessel armed with twelve six-inch guns. Fast, and fairly new by wartime standards, she was commanded by Captain Eric Duffield, a contemporary of Hemrose; they had even been classmates at Dartmouth. Hemrose grimaced angrily. That felt like a million years ago.

He saw the diamond-bright blink of her signal lamp, heard his chief yeoman call, 'From
Rhodesia,
sir. Honoured to join you.'

Hemrose would have liked to send a witty reply, but the moment had soured him. Duffield would hate being ordered here, to serve under his command. They had always been rivals. Even with women.

He snapped, 'Acknowledge.' It was strange, these
Mauritius
Class cruisers were in fact slightly smaller than his own ship, but they appeared larger, more rakish.

The destruction of the convoy by the German raider had been hard to take, when so many warships were out searching for her. But it had put an edge to their purpose; he had felt it too when he had visited the New Zealander, the
Pallas.
A spirit of determination, a need for revenge.

Now there would be a sense of disbelief, anti-climax even, with the obvious prospect of being returned to general duties. He tried not to face the other important fact. It would also mean dipping his temporary promotion. He ground his teeth.
For all time.

He lowered his glasses and watched the new cruiser continuing to turn in a great display of creaming wash. The weather was quite faultless. Clear blue sky, sunshine to display
Rhodesia's
square bridge and raked funnels, her four triple turrets. When

I )uffie!d had finished buggering about, getting his ship perfectly on station, he would doubtless make another signal. To say he was sorry that the hunt was over. Meaning exactly the opposite.

Hemrose saw the commander hovering nearby and said, ‘What lime is our ETA at Simonstown?'

The commander watched him doubtfully. Hemrose had been even more difficult since The News, as it was termed in the wardroom. He could sympathise with Hemrose, although in secret Commander Godson was not sorry to be spared from crossing guns with a ship like
Prinz Luitpold.

'We go alongside at sixteen hundred tomorrow.'

Hemrose had thought about it until his brain throbbed.

They had received a lengthy signal from the Admiralty, and an even longer top-secret intelligence report. It was quite plain. He should swallow his disappointment, even his pride, and accept it. A United States submarine had made a brief emergency signal to announce that she was in contact with the raider. There had been a shorter one, too garbled to decode properly. It was her last word.

When US warships had finally reached the search area, they had found nothing for a lull day, except for a two-mile oil slick:,, and some cork chippings of the kind used in a submarine's internal paintwork to diminish condensation. Then later, as another darkness had closed in, one of the ships had picked up some human remains. To all accounts there had been little enough to discover in the grisly fragments, except that they were German.

The American submarine was known to have collided with a freighter which had failed to stop after theii brief contact. The US commander had signalled that he was returning to base only partly submerged because of the damage to hull and hydroplanes.

Hemrose had considered the signals with great care, and had called the New Zealand captain, Chantril, across for a conference.

The Kiwi had accepted it philosophically.

'So the Yank got in a lucky salvo. Beat us to the punch. But it cost him dearly for doing it.'