iron pirate (31 page)

Meile dragged her wrists over her head and held them tightly. He said, 'Don't fight me. I'm going to take you.
NowV

In the next cabin, young Jaeger switched on his light and squinted at his wristwatch. He would not wait to be roused, but would have a shave before they tested action stations to start another day. He thought he heard the girl's stifled cry through the thick steel and shook his head. That Meile was like an animal where women were concerned. He tried not to think of the gentle Sophie; it was wrong even to picture her in his mind with all that was going on in the next cabin. The sooner they dropped the three women off in the next rendezvous supply-boat, the better. He thought of Hechler's face when he had been speaking with the girl pilot. No, perhaps not her.

He stood up and felt the carpet tremble beneath his bare feet. Then he looked at the disordered bunk. It was not so difficult to see Sophie here after all.

On the opposite side of the ship the girl gathered up her things and pushed them unseeingly into a small grip. She would return to her allotted cabin, which she shared with one of the camera girls. Like Jaeger, she switched on some lights and stood, swaying to the heavy motion in front of a bulkhead mirror. Where he adjusted his uniform before going to speak with his sailors. She pouted at herself. Or, in the past, leave to see his unfaithful wife.

She opened her shirt and watched herself touch the scar on her side. It still hurt. Her hand drifted slowly across her skin as his had done. She could still feel him; her body was both elated and sore from their need for each other.

She had not realised how it was possible to be both loved and possessed, to feel victor and conquered at the same time. She buttoned her shirt and looked very slowly around the empty cabin. She would not come back again. Not ever, unless they were together.

She heard quiet movements from the captain's pantry. Poor Pirk, his servant and guardian angel. In some strange way, his acceptance of her here had seemed like a blessing.

She supported herself in the doorway and listened to the mounting rumble of power. Like something unleashed, which would never be cowed until satisfied, or destroyed.

Her fingers rested hesitantly on the last light switch. She would remember everything. The rasp of his clothes against her nakedness, the thrust of his body which was like love and madness together.

The cabin retreated into darkness and she closed the door.

As she walked past the dozing sentry at the end of the passageway she knew she would regret nothing.

The Signal

Peter Younger, one-time radio officer of the SS
Radnor Star,
drew his knees up to his chin and shaded his eyes with one hand. He was still unused to being on dry land again, and for hours after his arrival with the small party of German sailors he had been light-headed, unsteady on his feet like some dockside drunk. When the raider had weighed anchor and had headed away from the tiny islet Younger had almost expected that each minute was to be his last. He had seen the rough grave, and had heard what had happened from one of the station's crew. It was curious, but the resident crew had been as withdrawn as the Germans from him, and of course Old Shiner. He glanced at the white-bearded boatswain who was sitting with his back to a rock, facing the sun, eyes closed. He could be dead, he thought.

He idly watched one German who was strolling up and down the slope, a machine-pistol dangling from his shoulder. Younger had heard the senior rating telling him off for not wearing his cap; it was absurd, when you knew you would soon be changing places with your prisoners.

Mason, the man in charge of the small station, had whispered to him that the place was no longer properly operational. So no regular monitoring or signals would be missed or expected. The enemy had worked it out very well. The man had said that when the German operator made his false signal, someone on the receiving end might realise it was not the usual telegraphist. He had added somewhat condescendingly that only a radio man would understand that. Younger had contained his impatient and irritation.
You can say that again,
his inner voice had answered.

Younger had decided not to share his plan with anyone just yet. The station crew seemed too dazed and shocked by what had happened to their companion. Cowed was putting it mildly, he thought angrily. The Germans would not want to kill anyone for no purpose. If the British or American warships arrived to find more graves, they might forget the Geneva Convention, so far

Irom home, and take their own revenge. The krauts would think I hat anyway.

It would have to be after the false signal and without giving [hem time to destroy the transmitter. Younger had measured up the distance he had to cover, had even selected the sailor he would overpower to reach the radio-room. The German sailor in question was often on guard duty; he was apparently useless as a cook or anything else with one arm in plaster. He could not therefore carry more than a pistol, and he usually kept that buttoned in his holster. And why not? They had no means of escape, nowhere to run to. They were all prisoners now. He tried to gauge their feelings, those of the senior operator in charge anyway. He could see him now, standing by the ladder to the radio-room, his cap dangling from one hand as he shared the frail sunlight.

He was young but prematurely bald, a fact made more obvious by the dark hair on either temple. He was a thoughtful-looking man, introspective, with the sensitive features of a priest. He was probably brooding on his own predicament, which had been thrust on him in the name of duty.

Younger licked his lips and tried to relax his body, muscle by muscle. When he considered what he intended to do he was surprised at his strength and conviction. There was no fear at all. He thought of the torpedo which had blasted the old ship apart, men screaming and on fire, others being carried away by the suction to the same Atlantic grave.

This would be for them. The Old Man, Colin Ames, all of them.

With a start he realised that the old boatswain had opened his eyes and was watching him without recognition. His eyes were washed-out blue, so pale in the glare that they were like a blind

man's.

Younger smiled. 'Okay, Shiner?' He wondered if he knew where they were. How they had got here.

The boatswain opened and closed his hands. They lay on the rock beside him, as if they were independent of their owner.

He said huskily, 'Wot time we goin' to eat, Sparks?'

Younger shot a quick glance at the two Germans, but neither had noticed.

He hissed, 'Don't call me that, mate!'

The eyes did not blink. 'You're Peter Younger, that's who. He nodded, satisfied. 'Sparks'

Younger sighed. 'Ames is dead. I've taken his place.' He could feel his plan running out like sand. 'The krauts wouldn't let me within a mile of this lot if they knew.' He gripped his arm fiercely. Through the ragged jersey it felt like a stick. 'Help me. To even the score for the lads and the old
Star,
eh?'

He saw understanding cloud the pale eyes for the first time. He said shakily, 'All gone. The lot of 'em. Jim, Colin, and -' he stared round, suddenly desperate - 'where's -'

Younger gripped his arm and said quietly, It's all right, Shiner. The cat didn't feel anything. He's buried with the lads now.' He watched the sentry's shadow reaching across the rough slope. 'Because of these bastards.'

The old man closed his eyes. 'Dead, you say?'

Younger looked down.
Please help me. In God's name, help.

He said aloud, 'It was a U-boat. But they're all the same. The crew here don't understand like we do. They seem to think a war's for someone else to fight.' He steadied himself, knowing he would break down otherwise. 'Will you give me a hand?'

'Just tell me what to do, Sparks.' He smiled but it made him look even sadder. 'Sorry, I mean
Mr Ames.'

Younger sat back on his haunches. It was suddenly crystal-clear what he would do. As if he could see it happening in slow motion, something already past.

He considered what the man Mason had told him about one operator being familiar to another. He had always known it, and the radio officer who had taught him had described how you could often recognise the sender before the actual ship was identified.

Did that mean Mason or one of the others would make the signal to keep in with their captors?

It made him sweat to think of it. The raider was off to attack the biggest prize yet. It must be really important to leave some of their own people behind. None of them seemed to know where the attack might be launched. In case they were captured and interrogated before the raider could make good her escape. The stark picture of the drifting lifeboat, the moments when he had been almost too terrified to open his eyes when he had drowsed over the tiller. They had all been waiting for him. The nightmare had never gone away. They had died one by one, mostly in silence with a kind of passive acceptance.

It would not be much, but his actions might help to save other helpless merchant seamen. He hoped his old mother would find out that he had died this way. His dry lips cracked into a smile. M ight get the George Cross. Something for his Dad to brag about down at the Shipwright's Arms.

Another shadow fell across them. 'We eat soon.' It was the senior operator, apparently the only one who spoke English. He would, of course.

Thanks.'

The German glanced down at the old boatswain. 'He okay?'

Old Shiner did not open his eyes. 'Right as bloody ninepence, la.'

The German turned away. That last sentence had thrown him.

He walked down to the water's edge and stared at the dark water. It shelved away steeply after that. Just a pile of rock in the middle of nowhere, he thought.

His name was Ernst Genscher and his home was in Leipzig. It would be cold there now. Winter always came early to that city. I Ie tried to see it as in his boyhood, the spires and fine buildings. Not as on his last leave. The bomb debris, Russian prisoners working to clear the streets of corpses and rubble. The prisoners had looked like human scarecrows, and had been guarded by units of the SS. He thought of his divisional officer. Leutnant Bauer. They had never got on together. He smiled bitterly. That was why he had been detained for his final job. Bauer would have been right at home in the SS.

How much longer would the war last, he wondered? He and (he others would end up in some prisoner-of-war camp in England or Canada. It might not be too bad. It was like their situation here in this damnable place, he thought. Neither side wanted to antagonise the other in case the wrong one came out victorious.

He thought of his companions. They were more worried than they admitted. Some even expected the
Prinz
to come back for them. A tiger had never been known to come back to release a tethered goat.

Genscher replaced his cap and smiled at his earlier show of discipline with the sentry.

He looked at his watch. He would send the signal in a few hours time, just before sunset. His priest's face brightened into a smile.

It was somehow appropriate.

The three captains sat in Hemrose's deep armchairs and held out their glasses to be refilled.

Hemrose crossed one leg over the other and plucked his shirt away from his body. The air was hot and lifeless, and even with the scuttles open it was hard to ease the discomfort. The glass seemed steady enough, Hemrose thought, but it smelled like a storm. It was all they needed.

He watched his steward pause to take Captain Eric Duffield's glass to be topped up.
Rhodesia
s captain was a big, powerful man, whose face had once been very handsome. A bit too smarmy for Hemrose's taste. Always excelled at sport and athletics. Not any more, Hemrose thought with small satisfaction.

He had forgotten how many Horse's Necks he had downed, nor did he care much. It was getting more like a wake than a relaxed drink in harbour with his captains, with a good dinner to follow. They would not be
his
captains much longer. He shied away from the thought.

With an effort he stood up and crossed to the nearest scuttle. The lights of Simonstown glittered on the water like a swarm of fireflies, while here and there small boats moved through the dusk between the anchored warships. It could be peacetime, he thought. Well, almost.

He heard Duffield say, 'Good place to settle down, South Africa. I'd think about it myself after this lot's over, but you never know.' Hemrose gritted his teeth together. He meant that he would be staying on in the service, promoted probably to end his time in command of a base, or with a nice staff job in Whitehall.

The New Zealand captain, Chantril, replied, 'We've not won the bloody war yet.' His accent took the edge from his words. He was feeling it too. The chance to meet and destroy the raider. Become a part of the navy's heritage.

Hemrose turned and signalled to his steward. 'I still can't believe it, you know.'

Duffield smiled. 'Believe or accept? There's a difference.' Hemrose ignored him. 'A whole ship gone west, not even a scrap of wreckage discovered?'

Chantril said, 'It happened to HMAS
Sydney.
Her loss is still a

mystery.'

Duffield glanced at his watch. He could not wait to eat up and go. Get back to his own ship and tell them all how Hemrose was taking his unfought defeat.

He said, 'The backroom boys at the Admiralty know more than they let on

Hemrose glared. 'Bloody useless, most of them!'

Duffield coughed. 'We'll probably never know.'

Hemrose pushed a strand of hair from his eyes. He was getting drunk. 'That Jerry is still around. I'll stake my reputation on it.'

The others remained silent. They probably considered his reputation had already slipped away.

I've had my team working round the clock.' Hemrose pictured the charts, the layers of signal pads and folios. All for nothing. We had a damn good try anyway.'

They both stared at him. It was the nearest he had ever come to an admission of failure.