The Sea Break (5 page)

The Newt fidgeted with his moustache. “I’ll knock around the docks to-morrow. Try and make friends with some
Portuguese
. Been out in the harbour yet?”

“No. Johan and I are hiring a boat to-morrow morning. We’ve got some fishing tackle and we’ve chummed up with a bloke who lets out boats. Domingos Parao. He wasn’t too keen on letting us go solo. Wanted to send his man with us. We talked him out of it.”

“To-day’s the tenth,” said the Newt. “We must aim at
finishing
the recce by the twentieth. Main thing is to establish the number of men on board and how many go ashore at one time.”

Out towards Chefine Island banks of cumulo-nimbus were building up and a breeze came in from the sea and ruffled the surface of the water; the scattered clouds cast dark shadows and the fairway buoys glistened white in the sunlight. The sea-birds were flying south to Cabo da Inhaca, away from the gathering storm. At the mouth of the river, almost lost in the
heat haze, a tanker rode high in the water, her hull
rust-streaked
, a white gush of condenser water discharging from her side.

Another two days passed and then they met the Newt in a dark lane near the Cardoso. He had spent the afternoon in a tug where he’d made friends with the mate who was from Lisbon. In the evening they’d done a pub-crawl before dinner and he’d learnt a good deal. The mate had heard the rumour that the
Hagenfels
was standing by to break out, but there were always such rumours, he said; the Germans started them, their security was excellent. He’d agreed that if any ship broke out it would be the
Hagenfels
because she was a motor ship; if a steamship raised steam it would be seen in the harbour and British Intelligence would at once know.

Johan frowned. “Wasn’t he suspicious?”

“No. My questions were pretty mildly put, and at long intervals. We talked of much besides. Both old Lisboans, you know. Towards the end, Artur was pretty high. A great thirst, that man.”

Johan and Rohrbach gave him their news. That afternoon two women had come ashore in the 5.30 launch which brought off crewmen from the German ships. There were eighteen Germans in the launch, and the women had taken a taxi into the town with the ship’s Captain and one of his officers.

“How did you know it was the Captain?”

“The women spoke English. One called him ‘Captain Lindemann,’ the other ‘Kurt.’ He’s Kurt Lindemann, master of the
Hagenfels
.”

“How do you know that, David?”

“
Ich
spreche
Deutsch.
The launch’s coxswain asked what time the
Herr
Kapitän
would like to be taken off to the
Hagenfels
. Lindemann said midnight.”

Johan le Roux rubbed his hands. “Tell him about the lovelies, David.”

“One of them lives with us. She’s staying at the Cardoso.
We’re like that.” Rohrbach held up two fingers. “Two nights ago she drank with us and swopped news. She’s single, lives with Pa and Ma on a sisal estate in northern Mozambique. Down here on holiday. She was at school on the Reef. A convent where many Portuguese girls go. Speaks good English.”

The Newt whistled. “Blimey. You’re a fast lot. She talk about Lindemann?”

“No.”

“Funny.”

“Not really. Why should she tell us her private life. We’d just met.”

“Did she see you two at the launch?”

“Sure. Smiled sweetly. Didn’t she, Johan?”

“Might be useful,” said the Newt. “I take it you’ll follow up?”

“Sure. Sure. Seeing her tomorrow. Nice girl, isn’t she, Johan?”

“Fabulous! Our Mariotta Pereira.”

The Newt plugged on. “The other bloke in the taxi with them. Who was he?”

“One of Lindemann’s officers.” Rohrbach made a rude noise. “Didn’t like his looks. Brooding type. Nasty young man, I’d say.”

Johan nodded. “Sombre character. Shaggy eyebrows.”

After they’d parted, the Newt took the cliff road to the Polana. It was past ten when he got there and there were people about. The lounge was unpleasantly hot, so he went out on to the veranda. It was a dark night with a waning moon, the southern sky shimmering with stars. Over the water across the bay the light at Ponta Garapao flashed every five seconds.

Below him the terraced garden led to the edge of the cliff. Somewhere a dance band was playing. The Newt thought of his wife in London and felt lonely.

From the shadows behind him came a woman’s voice: “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

It was an oppressive morning and the
Hagenfels
’s crew sniffed the wind coming up from Matola and smelt the mudflats and crude oil and knew that a hot day was coming. In the officers’ dining saloon, Kapitän Lindemann sat at the head of the table, his grey streaked hair moist with perspiration. His eyes, set wide apart in a weather-beaten face, had the uncomplicated directness of the seaman. To his right was Siegfried Kuhn, the chief engineer; small, bespectacled, alert, his thoughts were in Deugswald, the village outside Frankfurt where his wife and child had been billeted by the authorities. It was no longer possible to receive letters and his only news of her was in the form of messages from the German Consulate which came at long intervals.

On Lindemann’s left was the second officer, Günther Moewe, a sullen, sallow man of medium build. Next to him was a big man with the flattened nose and receding eyes of a boxer. This was Heinrich Schäffer, the second engineer. These were all the officers in the skeleton crew left on board while the ship sheltered in Lourenço Marques enjoying the sanctuary of a neutral port and safe from enemy interference as long as she remained there and observed the regulations laid down by the port authorities.

In addition to these officers she had on board a bosun, a carpenter, six sailors, three mechanicians, three greasers, a cook and an officers’ steward. Müller, the steward, waited on the officers, did their cabins and looked after them generally, and though the busiest man on board he never complained. Young and cheerful, he knew that life in Lourenço Marques was a lot easier than in a U-boat which would have been his lot had the
Hagenfels
got back to Germany.

At breakfast the tension between Lindemann and his second officer was much in the air. Moewe disapproved of the Captain, who was not a member of the National Socialist Party, and who was unenthusiastic about Hitler. Not that he’d ever said anything against the Führer, but he’d never said anything
for
him. In Moewe’s opinion the Captain drank too much, went to too many parties ashore, and too often brought women on board. Where was the dedication to the cause, the fervour, the zeal, so proper to a German patriot?

The Captain disliked Moewe for his lack of humour and fanatical Nazism. Lindemann knew he was not important in the Nazi hierarchy—a section leader in the
Hitler
Jugend
before the war—but Moewe took himself seriously. He’d been at the Nürnberg Rally in 1938, a member of the guard of honour inspected by the Führer. The great man had stopped and asked him his name. Moewe stammered a reply and Hitler had given him an enigmatic stare before moving on. This was epochal for Moewe and ever since he’d preached National Socialism with messianic fervour. He was a good ship’s officer and a useful navigator, but intellectually a
lightweight
.

The officers were waiting for Lindemann to leave the table, but he showed no sign of moving. Instead he said to the steward: “Müller! You can go now. Close the pantry door.”

Müller disappeared. Lindemann turned to the expectant faces of his officers, and said: “There is important news. We are to stand by—twenty-four hours’ notice.” He paused. “This won’t involve much change in our routine. But in future all leave will end at midnight.”

He nodded to Siegfried Kuhn. “Turning your engines regularly, Kuhn? Fuel and water tanks full?”

“Ninety per cent full, Herr Kapitän. Tomorrow they will be topped up.”

“Good!” Lindemann turned to Günther Moewe. “Let
me have the times of moonrise and moonset and of high and low water each week in advance, please.”

The second officer’s eyes shone with patriotic fervour. “Very good, Herr Kapitän!”

“The strictest secrecy, please. The men are not to be told. The change in leave will apply to all German ships here. It will be said to be in response to new orders from Germany arising out of complaints ashore. Is that understood?”

It was.

“There are new radio frequencies, Moewe. Come to my cabin for them.”

“Very good, Herr Kapitän.” As well as navigating officer, Moewe was now doing radio duties, the original radio officer having been repatriated to Germany via Portugal with the other half of the crew. When the signal to break out was received, the skeleton crew would be augmented by men from the other German ships; at the last moment before sailing and under cover of darkness.

The chief engineer asked the question which was in all their minds. “Herr Kapitän, do we return to Germany or shall we act as supply vessel?”

“We shall not know until we are at sea. Bad security to tell us now. We do not need the information.”

The effect of the news on Lindemann’s officers was electric. For more than three years they’d been bottled up in Lourenço Marques, holding themselves always in readiness for a break out. Twice they’d been at forty-eight hours’ notice, but nothing had come of it. Now for the first time twenty-four hours’ notice had been ordered. A situation must be
developing
.

The monotony of life on board an anchored ship in a
subtropical
port far from home might soon end. There would be action. Return to Germany or the dangers and excitement of supplying German raiders and U-boats in the Indian Ocean and South Atlantic. All were moved by these prospects. Günther Moewe glowed with pride. To strike at last a blow
for the Führer, to get away from this God-forsaken place. His only regret would be Hester.

The feminine voice from the shadows sounded an alarm bell somewhere in the Newt, but when he saw its owner he felt better. She got up from the easy-chair behind him and moved into the light from the lounge window.

She was good to look at: chestnut hair and firm regular features, but her eyes were the thing. Laughing and friendly, cornflower blue, with crow’s feet at the corners. The Newt had some experience of these things and he was impressed.

“
Very
beautiful,” He was deliberately ambiguous, looking at her and then at the sea. “Hot this afternoon but cool now.”

“Always so at this time of year.”

“You know the climate well?”

“Fairly well. I live here.”

He offered her a cigarette. She shook her head. “Not now, thank you.”

“Mind if I do?”

“Not in the least.”

“Care for a drink?”

“Love one.”

In the lounge they sat where they could see over the bay, sipping the drinks the waiter brought them.

He soon knew her story: Di Brett, a widow—late twenties, he judged—obviously well off; she’d spent the first year of the war in Cape Town, the next between Durban and Salisbury, then Johannesburg, and in Lourenço Marques for the last eight months. She’d married an Englishman, lived in England most of her life, though born near Grenoble, which accounted for the slight French accent.

“I love this place,” she watched him over the rim of her glass. “So cosmopolitan. Like a breath of the Continent after the stodginess of the Union. The food, the wine, the way people live—oh, so sophisticated. And I
adore
hot weather.”

She soon knew a good deal about him. An Englishman from
Portugal, in the family port and sherry business, in South Africa for the firm when war broke out, stayed on and now visiting Lourenço Marques on business.

“Why aren’t you in the war, if you’re an Englishman?” Her eyebrows arched,

“Well,” he frowned in his embarrassment. “Would have been if I’d gone back to England. To be honest, I’ve lived in Portugal too long to feel any emotional involvement. I think it’s an unnecessary war.”

She seemed shocked and looked at him sideways, evidently not quite sure about him.

“War’s a hateful thing.” She said it with much feeling, and he thought she must have lost her husband.

“Let’s forget it,” he said and there was a long silence. Then they walked down the veranda to where the band was playing. It was dark and musky and rather good fun, he thought. He found a table, ordered a bottle of wine, and they danced under subdued lights. A little distantly at first, but not for long, for the Newt felt time floating away on the wings of soft music, and held her close and she seemed to like it.

Next day Rohrbach and Johan worked together, the Newt operating on his own.

That night they met on an empty building site down a dark lane opposite Gigi’s restaurant and swopped news. The Newt had learnt from the mate of the tug that there were about twenty men in the
Hagenfels
’s skeleton crew, and that half of them went ashore on three days of the week. He also confirmed that the
Hagenfels
was lying to two bower anchors. In the afternoon Rohrbach and Johan had hired a small fishing boat and travelled down the Espirito Santo into the bay beyond.

“We caught some fish,” said Johan. “And David was sick.”

Rohrbach made a clicking noise. “Didn’t bring up, but I felt lousy. Small boats, you know.”

“You and Nelson!” the Newt said coldly.

They’d also checked that the
Clan
McPhilly
and
Tactician
had finished discharging and begun loading,

“To-night,” Johan made a circle with his thumb and
forefinger
, “is the night.”

“What’s on?”

“We’ve a date with Mariotta and her girl friend.”

“Who’s that?”

“Cleo. The other doll in the launch.”

“Well, enjoy yourselves but watch your libidos.” He thought of Di Brett and his appointment to dine and dance with her that night. “There’s a time for everything,” he added in his chilliest manner.

Johan said: “Yes. We feel it’s to-night.”

The breeze came to them cool and laden with frangipani. A car passed at the top of the lane, gramophone music sounded somewhere and in the distance a dog barked.

Mariotta was a dark, lively Portuguese beauty, with hair and eyes that were almost black. The Greek girl, Cleo Melanides, had that special quality of femininity which makes a woman so attractive to men. Possibly it had to do with her high cheekbones and slanted hazel eyes, which were a curious mixture of interrogation and surprise. She and Mariotta spoke good English.

From the Cardoso they drove in Rohrbach’s Studebaker to Peter’s, a beach roadhouse beyond the Polana. After a meal of prawns, washed down with
Serradayres
, they danced to a piano, saxophone and drums. Before midnight they drove back into town where the bars, bistros and honky-tonks of the Araújo were doing business with the crews from the ships on the Espirito Santo.

Along the street there was a confused jumble of sound: the deep voices of men, the higher ones of women, the occasional shouts of sailors and the excited shrieks of girls. Taxis hooted, and from somewhere came the steady thump of jazz.

Johan insisted on the Pinguin. He had drunk a good deal and drifted into a euphoria which seemed likely to last the night.

Mariotta complained. “It ees for sailors, Johan. Not for us.” Cleo agreed, but Johan swept their objections aside. The Pinguin was filled with so much smoke that it seemed to be on fire, and the orchestration of many voices, rising and falling like a heavy sea, fought with the band.

They danced, drank Portuguese beer, talked, argued, flirted and enjoyed themselves with the ardour of youth. Rohrbach heard Germans at the next table. There were four men there and he knew from what they said that they were seamen. One of them, the big one who looked like a
prize-fighter
, had been in the launch with the two girls in the boat harbour. Rohrbach nudged Mariotta. “Those chaps at the table—next to that mirror—aren’t they my countrymen?”

Puzzled at first, she smiled. “Of course! You’re German. I keep forgetting. You speak such good English. Yes, they are Germans. From the ships. I know one. Do you wish to meet him?”

He shook his head. “Not here. I can’t hob-nob with Germans ashore. Make things difficult for me in South Africa.” He pulled at his beard; he was determined not to let this chance pass. “When you and Cleo came ashore in the launch the other day, who was the bloke who helped you ashore—middle-aged? Then you two went off in a taxi with him and another type?”

Cleo wagged a finger at him. “You are like a spy.”

“Ha! Ha!” Rohrbach knew his laugh was feeble and hated himself for it.

“That was Captain Kurt Lindemann of the
Hagenfels
. The other was his second officer, Günther Moewe.”

Rohrbach yawned, looking round the room. “How come you were in the launch?” It really did sound casual: much better than his guffaw.

“We’d had tea on the
Hagenfels
with Kurt.”

“You
are
lucky! I’d love to go on a German ship again. Feel myself on German soil. Speak my language.”

“Me, too,” said Johan. “I’m not German, but I admire them. Like to meet them. They’re terrific fighters.”

“They are very brave people,” said Mariotta. “Wonderful soldiers.”

Johan said: “
And
sailors. Wonderful sailors!”

Blast him, thought Rohrbach. He’s so bloody obvious.

“You’re a great admirer of theirs, aren’t you, Johan?” said Mariotta.

“Terrific!” The beer made a drain-like noise as he
up-ended
the tankard. “One day I hope to fight with them.”

“Is that possible?” Mariotta was puzzled.

“We shall see,” said Johan. “We shall see.”

Rohrbach kicked him under the table, hard.

Mariotta was staring at the German who looked like a bruiser. He bowed and she smiled. “He is the one I know,” she said to Rohrbach. “Heinrich Schäffer. Second engineer of the
Hagenfels
.”

“Pouf!” Cleo pouted. “I do not like him. He has only one idea.”

“Disgusting!” Johan winked at Rohrbach who thought, damn his lights, he’s tight.

Before they finished with her Mariotta had promised to ask Lindemann if she and Cleo could take them to a party in the
Hagenfels
. “I am sure he will like you,” she was compellingly intense. “He is very sympathetic.”

“I’m sure I shall like
him
,” said Rohrbach.