iron pirate (26 page)

Hemrose slumped in the bridge chair and said, 'Get a signal off to Simonstown, Toby. The squadron will refuel on arrival. But
lighters,
not alongside,' He slammed his hands together. 'I want to be ready for sea at the first hint of news.'

The commander opened his mouth and closed it promptly. It was obviously going to drag on until the boss accepted the inevitable. He ventured, They won't like it, sir.'

Hemrose slid from the chair and snapped, 'Plotting team in the chart-room, chop chop. I've got a
feeling
about that bloody German.'

In the cool shadows of the spacious chart-room Hemrose glared at his team. A mixed collection, he thought. But he had to admit that they had done well in their new role. Even the chaplain, who had devised a special file of sighting reports and information from neutral sources. It had all come together far better than he had dared to hope. Until the news about the submarine.

He knew they were watching him, gauging his temper. That suited him. He had always found that fear was the best prop to naval leadership.

The navigating officer had updated the charts daily, adding known convoys, escort groups, and isolated strangers in the vast sea area which touched two continents.

Even the progress of a solitary hospital ship was noted. They were always at risk. A U-boat commander might put one down because he had not taken the time to identify the markings, or the brightly lit hull at night-time. Or another, who was on his way back to base, might do it because his search for victims had been ill rewarded.

Hemrose pictured his German captain. No, he was not the sort to sink a hospital ship with its cargo of sick and wounded survivors. Hemrose held no admiration for Hechler whatever. He did not even know much about him, other than the intelligence reports and some newspaper articles, but he knew his worth as a fighting sailor. He could still remember the ship reeling over to the aggressive mauling of those eight-inch guns. Hechler was a man who took risks, who would not damage that reputation by killing wounded men.

He said, 'What do we know, gentlemen,
really
know?’ They remained silent and he added, 'Some Jerry remains were picked up but we cannot be certain they were from
Prinz Luitpold.
Or if they were, she might be damaged, steaming away to put it right, preparing to come back into the fight when she's good and ready.'

The navigating officer, a fresh-faced lieutenant who had proved his ability even to Hemrose's satisfaction, said, 'My guess is I he latter, sir. She was damaged, and is making for home base again.' He looked at the others as if for support. 'And why not? She's wiped out a convoy and other ships besides - she'll likely got a hero's welcome if she makes it back to Norway or wherever.'

Hemrose nodded, his heavy features giving nothing away.

good thinking, Pilot. In which case the Home Fleet will catch the bugger this time.' He looked round. 'Ideas?'

The chaplain cleared his throat. 'But suppose the raider is still at large, sir. Where will she go next? How does she find fuel?'

'Fucking good question.' He saw the chaplain wince at his crude comment, as he had known he would. ‘She'll likely go for the big troop convoy, although my guess is that she's left it too late. The escort has already put down two U-boats, and they've not lost a single ship as yet.'

The navigating officer tapped the chart. There's the iron-ore convoy, sir. It should be near the Falklands about now.' He lifted the chart to peer underneath. 'Two more off Durban, both destined for the UK, and of course the fast oil convoy from the Gulf.'

Hemrose pictured the network of convoy routes in and out of Britain. In two great wars those same lifelines had almost been cut. Had that happened, the country, and therefore her dwindling allies would have been brought down. So many times, the convoy losses in the Atlantic had outpaced their ability to build replacements. It had been a raging battle from the first day, and the casualties had been awesome. Yet still men went back to sea, again and again, with only a handful of clapped-out escorts to protect them or die too.

He tried to picture himself in
Wiltshire,
a lone raider like Hechler's ship.
At large,
as the chaplain had described it. He would. But the man of God had a point about fuel supplies. It had to be something big before
Prinz Luitpold
could run for home. Iron-ore? He peered at the chart, his shadow across it like a cloud. Once it could have been vital, but not now. Not unless Mister Hitler pulled another rabbit from his hat. The Russians were still advancing, and the Allies were about to burst across the Rhine. It was still almost too hard to believe after all the retreats and stupid mistakes.

The Durban convoys then? He examined the navigator's typed notes. Times, dates, weather, and already some hint of the escort. He said bluntly, 'I'd go for the big prize.' He thrust the upper charts aside. 'The oilers. Still the most valuable convoy, no matter what the newspapers blather about.'

The commander said, 'It would be a terrible risk, sir.' He flinched under Hemrose's red-rimmed stare. 'For the krauts, I mean.'

'Of course it would.' He stood back and decided he would have a Horse's Neck in a few moments to settle his thoughts. 'He could get cut off on the wrong side of the Cape of Good Hope if he decides to go looking for the convoy too soon.'

The commander said, 'But if their lordships and the C-in-C have already considered this, then surely -'

Hemrose beamed at him. Godson's stupidity was somehow reassuring. He had not missed the fact that none of them had further suggested thai the
Prim Luitpold
had been destroyed, or that they were all wasting their time.

He nodded, his mind made up. 'Did you signal Simonstown?'

The commander sighed. 'Ail agreed, sir.'

Hemrose rubbed his hands. Captains' conference immediately we anchor.'

The navigator looked up from the chart and asked simply, 'But if we're wrong, sir?'

Hemrose did not reply at once. 'You mean if
i'm
wrong. Pilot?' They all laughed politely.

Hemrose picked up his cap and studied it. It would look good with another row of oak leaves around the peak, he thought.

He said, 'My wife won't like it a bit.'

Not one of them realised that he actually meant it.

Korvettenkapitan Josef Gudegast stood with his hands on his hips and waited for the two Arado pilots to scribble a few more notes on their pads. It might be another warm day, but the dawn air in the conning tower was cold and dank. The massive steel door purred open on its slide and Gudegast saw the captain framed against a dull grey sky.

Nearly ready, sir.'

Hechler glanced at the two pilots who had sprung to attention, 'At ease.' He knew Gudegast would take care of everything. He had done it often enough, but the pilots had to be certain of their orders. Both float-planes had been stripped of unnecessary weight, and would carry no bombs.

As Leitner had replied testily when this had been mentioned, 'We want to use the radio station, not blow its bloody mast down.'

He was up there now on his bridge, impatient, eager to get moving.

Hechler went over it again. Both aircraft would land in a tiny sheltered strip of water, and the landing party would go ashore without delay in rubber dinghies. The planes would be packed like cans of sardines, he thought. He lingered over the officer in
_t
harge, Oberleutnant Bauer. An obvious choice as he was a communications specialist . But he had done very little field training, so a good petty officer had been selected as second-in-command.

I light men in all, excluding the pilots. The intelligence reports were definite about the radio station. It was never fully operational and reliable reports stated that it was about to be adapted as a giant radar beacon. The invasion of Europe had made that an unwanted luxury. There were only three men on that lonely pinnacle of rock. Gudegast had said, 'What a way to fight a war. The poor bastards might never be told if it's over, or who's won!'

Theil had snapped at him. The war will end for
them
if they try to sabotage the station!

Poor Theil, he was looking more strained, with deep lines around his mouth.

Hechler said, 'Met reports are good.' He looked at each of the fliers and recalled Leitner's angry outburst when he had suggested that the new Arado should be sent, and so keep a fully operational one on board, just in case.

Leitner had shouted. That is defeatist talk, Captain! For a man of action you seem beset by caution! The new plane will be employed
when 1 say
so!'

He too seemed more on edge. The prospect of action, the apparent lack of enemy signals. It was like steaming into an i mpenetra ble 1 og.

Hechler glanced at the bulkhead clock. "Five minutes.' He nodded to the pilots. 'Good luck.' He recalled his letters to the parents of the men lost in the Baltic. Their faces already wiped from his memory. He resisted the urge to shiver.

He made his way to the fore bridge, and noted the lookouts and

gun crews huddled together at their defence stations.

There goes the captain,
he could almost hear the whispers.
Does he look worried?

He waited for a seaman to wipe the moisture from his chair and then climbed into it.

Korvettenkapitan Werner Froebe had the morning watch, his face red in the chilled air, his huge hands wrapped around the gyro-repeater so that it looked no larger than a coffee cup. Young Jaeger was nearby, ready to relay orders, watching and learning. He seemed to have become suddenly mature after the lifeboat, and the convoy.

Hechler thought of their two survivors. The aged boatswain was still in a kind of daze, and Stroheim said that he rarely paid attention to anything that was happening. The other one, the young mate called Ames, had made a complete recovery. Hechler pictured the drifting corpses. If anyone ever got over that sort of experience.

Theil joined him on the gratings, his fingers busily adjusting his powerful binoculars.

Hechler glanced at him. After we find the convoy, Viktor, we can turn for home. Fight our way right through the British Fleet if need be.'

The first Arado coughed into life and he tasted the sharp tang of high-octane fuel. Surprise was everything. It was unlikely that the crew of the radio station would even guess what had hit them. After all, it had never happened before.

A phone buzzed and the seaman who picked it up yelled, 'Ready, sir!'

Hechler could imagine Leitner peering down from his armoured nest. But he did not turn to look. 'Go!'

The plane roared along the short catapult, dived clumsily towards the water, rallied and then climbed away from the slow-moving ship.

Voices muttered by the starboard ladder and Jaegar said, 'Visitor, sir.'

Hechler glanced across in time to see Theil's frowning disapproval and a signalman's quick grin.

She crossed the bridge very carefully, her hair rippling over her coat collar while she rested on a stanchion for support. Hechler took her hand and guided her to the chair. Once, he glanced up to Leitner's bridge and thought he saw the admiral's cap move back quickly out of sight.

He asked, 'How are you?' He noticed the way she was holding her side and wondered why she had come. All those ladders, and she was still weak from losing so much blood.

She settled down on the chair and tucked her chin into a scarf.

' The doctor said it was safe.' She watched the second Arado as it roared away from the side, the camouflage dull against the dark, heaving water. I feel better already.'

Hechler heard Froebe say, The camera is cranking away, I see!

God, we'll all be film stars yet!'

Hechler looked at her and found he was able to shelve his immediate problems. The next fuelling rendezvous. The convoy. The cost in ships and men. Perhaps after that, Leitner would be content. He ought to be.

He offered, 'You look fine. You've got your colour back.'

She looked at him, and for a few moments it was like a bond, a physical embrace although neither of them had moved.

A seaman called, 'From W/T office, sir. They are monitoring a broadcast and request instructions.'

Hechler nodded. 'You go down, Viktor. It may be nothing, but we need all the news we can get.'

He thought of Froebe's sarcastic comment, and then of the supply submarine's hideous end. Leitner had said originally that t he women of the camera crew would be transferred to the supply boat with their cans of film. The milch-cow had been due to return to base to replenish stocks of fuel. He did not imagine that I he two women would be very pleased at being made to wait for another rendezvous, with the prospect of a battle before-hand. With luck, the risk of damage should be minimal. All the enemy's heavy escorts were with the big troop convoy, and other units were still sweeping to the North for some reason. It was likely that valuable though it was, the convoy of oil tankers would rely on speed and a small, local escort until the last long haul of Biscay and beyond.

She was still watching him, her tawny eyes very bright in spite of the misty dawn reflections.

She said, 'It is like going on and on for ever.' She placed her hand on the rail below the screen so that it was just inches from his.

Another voice called, 'Lost contact with aircraft, sir.'

'Very well.' Hechler looked at her hand. It was almost a physical pain. But it was no longer ridiculous, even though any kind of future was nothing more than an idle dream.

She dropped her voice. ‘Do you still miss her?'

Hechler stared. 'No. I - I'm not sure. To say I have wasted my other life beyond this ship, is like a betrayal a deep hurt.'

The words seemed to burst out of him, yet he could not recall ever being so open with anyone. Like being stripped naked, left without any defences.

She said, 'I know what you're thinking, Dieter. You are wrong. 1 think all the more of you because of your frankness, your sense of honour,'