The Storm That Shook the World

by Walter Soellner

  The two men sat there in silence for a few minutes, then Herr Leopold added, “Or you could try to intercept the Konigsberg off the coast. She passes by on occasion, but now with the war, we don’t see much of her. She’s probably out chasing British ships! Ha.”

  They both smiled as Markus expressed immediate interest, “The Konigsberg? Here?”

  “Ja, SMS Konigsberg, the Kaiser’s light cruiser.” He paused a moment. “They call it a light cruiser, but she’s the biggest German ship in the Indian Ocean, I’ll wager. She sails out of Dar es Salaam. That is, she did till the war started. Now, who knows?” He took another deep draw in his pipe.

  “How would I do that? Intercept the ship, as you said? How could I contact her?”

  “You could try our wireless. It’s pretty weak, but we manage to reach Dar es Salaam when the weather cooperates. She might pick up our signal.”

  “You have a wireless? Wonderful! I didn’t know you had one. Can I see the equipment?”

  “As a matter of fact, the wireless is upstairs in my office.” He gestured toward the narrow wooden staircase. Markus was out of his chair before Herr Leopold had put down his stein and pushed himself away from his workbench.

  It was, indeed, old equipment and probably weak, but it appeared to be in working order. Markus reverently bent over the machine. A bicycle generator was wired up to it.

  “It doesn’t get much use; I wire ships on occasion.” Leopold sat down in front of the dusty apparatus and flipped a switch. A small, red light faintly glowed.

  “I’ll get a boy up here to pedal the generator,” the tradesman said. He got up, went to the open window, leaned out, and shouted, “Luanga! Up here, now!”

  In no time, the young, black thirteen-year-old was pedaling away at breakneck speed, with a big smile on his face. “Make plenty ’lectric! Ha!” he laughed.

  “I’ve got business to attend to, so I leave you to see what you can do,” Leopold said as Markus slipped into the chair.

  “Thank you, sir,” Markus replied smartly.

  “You can slow down now, boy … Just keep a steady pace,.” Markus closely examined the wireless, turning it around for a closer inspection. He swung his ever-present knapsack off his shoulder and pulled out several parts. In a short time, he had the transmitter functioning far beyond its previous strength. He began an open transmission to the German colony, hoping there was someone other than the British listening. He identified himself and stated he was heading north soon.

  How to speak and not reveal my mission? thought Markus, knowing anyone could pick up his transmission.

  Just then Leopold bounded up the stairs with a much-dog-eared notebook in his hand. “Here. This may be of use. It’s kind of a code book—well, not really a code book so much as some substitute names we gave ships and certain cargos we didn’t want others to know about.” He emphasized ‘others’.

  “I believe the Konigsberg is in there … not sure.” It didn’t take Mathias long to find the entry: “Kberg = SeaSearcher.” He began transmitting that call sign requesting a rendezvous off Quelimane.

  Markus was surprised how strong the signal was from the SMS Konigsberg and how quickly she replied.

  “She must be very close,” he said to himself, out loud. Markus sent the following wireless:

  SEASEARCHER NEED IMMEDIATE TRANSPORT TO G.E.A. STOP. FROM QUELIMANE. STOP. TIME, DATE, LOCATION‥ STOP. SIGNED SAINT HILDEGARD VON BINGIN

  Leopold had given Markus his wireless name, known to most German traders along the coast and probably by the Imperial German Navy in the Indian Ocean, but probably not by the British navy. A short time later, Markus received a cryptic reply:

  SAINT HILDEGARD VON BINGIN. STOP. COORDINATES 18 DEGREES 6 MINUTES. STOP. 37 DEGREES 2 MINUTES E. STOP. 3-13-15. STOP. 2200 HOURS. STOP. SIGNED SEASEARCHER

  The location was one mile off the coast of Quelimane and in three days. “This is such good news, Leopold, my friend. Such good news … thank you.”

  “Well then, this calls for a celebration. How about a bottle of schnapps at a nearby café?”

  Settling in at the Rosalinda Café, Markus offered, “A toast to the Kaiser’s navy!”

  “Not so loud. Remember this is ‘Portuguese’ East Africa, not German East Africa,” Leopold hastened to warn Markus.

  “They tolerate us here because we’re a benefit to them, but remember, they have long been allies with the British!” Leopold looked around the quiet café, and whispered, “They’re neutral because they’re weak here in Africa … too much corruption and nepotism and all their commanders are from the decadent aristocracy. Not like Bismarck’s army built on merit, competence, and discipline … Now, that’s an army!”

  They filled their glasses and nodded in agreement. Markus leaned back in his chair and was feeling the effects of the schnapps. He was thoughtful for a few minutes, then spoke, “Won’t the British pick up my message and try an intercept?”

  Leopold’s eyes were red, and he slouched over the table. “No, no. First of all,” his speech was slow and slightly slurred, “there are few, if any, British warships along this coast. Mein Gott, the Germans only have one in the entire Indian Ocean—far as I know.” His hand flapped in the air.

  “Besides if, if, there is a British warship around—highly, highly unlikely—and if they pick up that transmission of yours, they are going to think it’s just another tramp steamer picking up freight.” His head wagged back and forth.

  “Remember, as a neutral, these Portuguese can trade with all the belligerents in this war—the Russians, the Austrians, the French, the Ottomans—all of them. See? See what I’m talking about?” He had exhausted himself and more or less collapsed onto the table, hitting his head with a bump. Herr Leopold was going to be out for the rest of the afternoon.

  The rendezvous with the Konigsberg went off smoothly after Leopold arranged for one of his German fishing friends to transport Markus out into a misty night to the approximate coordinates. Their little boat was purposefully lit up with a half dozen lanterns so the war ship could easily spot them.

  It slid out of the mists of a calm sea with hardly a sound. A massive steel wall, almost four hundred feet long, appeared fifty yards east of their little boat at the precise hour.

  Only the rhythmic thumping of the engines was heard in the still night air as a rope ladder with wooden steps lowered over the side of the German cruiser to the waiting Bavarian captain.

  Imperial German Navy

  CHAPTER 33

  The SMS Konigsberg

  Welcome aboard, Captain.” Officer of the deck, Marine Lieutenant Alfred Mueller offered his hand to Markus as he reached the top rung of the rope ladder.

  Markus stepped over the gunwale and onto the iron deck of the only German warship in the Indian Ocean. They both exchanged smart salutes as other sailors looked on.

  “Welcome aboard the Kaiser’s ship SMS Konigsberg,” Mueller spoke with pride. Even in the dim light on deck, the marine lieutenant noted Mathias’s ragged uniform.

  “We were ordered to keep a lookout for you along the coast, but that was months ago. You officially were reported dead or captured.” Markus, taken aback by the bluntness of Mueller’s assertion, again realized how long it had been since he left Windhoek. Could it really have been seven months ago?

  “Yes, it’s been a very long journey, and it’s not over. I must get to our colony up north as soon as possible … with your help.”

  “Yes, we know. Our commander, Captain Max Looff, ordered that you be brought to his cabin as soon as you came aboard. This way, Captain.”

  Markus was immediately impressed by the three-stack cruiser. It was the biggest warship he had ever been on, and he remembered it well from his voyage on her from Germany back in 1909. Although officially a light cruiser, it seemed immense to him.

  After formal introductions in the captain’s cabin, Captain Looff explained, “Before the wireless station at Windhoek was captured, your mission was communicated to us.
We heard in British and Portuguese wireless intercepts that the wreckage of an aeroplane was found with no trace of the pilot. Since your aeroplane was one of the very few aircraft in all of Sub-Saharan Africa, we knew it was you.” The ship’s steward brought coffee for the two men and the other officers invited to the meeting.

  “As far as the war in Europe is concerned, and you may have heard this from the Portuguese, there has developed somewhat of a stalemate on the western front in France and Belgium.”

  Captain Looff accepted the cup of coffee from the steward and gestured toward Markus as he continued. “However, General Hindenburg and General Ludendorff have pushed the Russians out of East Prussia and back into Poland. They encircled the Russian 2nd Army and captured 125,000 troops! Imagine!” The officers in the room grinned.

  “It’s being called the Battle of Tannenberg, and their general, General Samsonov, is reported to have committed suicide.” Everyone sat easy and sipped their coffee in silence, anticipating their captain’s next remarks.

  “I met him once, in St. Petersburg, in ’04, I think … a fine fellow, really.” Again, a long stillness before the captain finished his thought: “It’s not going to be a short war.”

  Captain Looff lit a cigarette and snapped the wooden match in two. “The Japanese invaded our colony in China. Tsingtao is holding on, but we can’t resupply them, so …” he didn’t have to finish the thought, as everyone understood the cause was lost in China.

  “All our colonies are extremely vulnerable, including this one.” He shuffled through wireless dispatches and added, “We’ve had considerable success off the coast of Chile. The Konigsberg’s sister ship, SMS Nürnberg, participated in the Battle of Coronel, sinking the British battle cruiser HMS Monmouth and another ship.” The officers in the room looked at each other knowingly.

  “Right now, Captain, we have to concern ourselves with Admiral King-Hall’s Cape Squadron up from South Africa. He’s got five capital ships: the Astraea, the Hyacinth, the Chatham, the Dartmouth and the Weymouth. They’re searching for us as we speak. Fortunately, we’re faster than any of the five, so we can out run them and be lost in the vastness of the sea … as long as we’ve got coal.” He grinned and the other officers followed suit.

  “Before you are shown to your quarters, Captain Mathias, you should know, our mission at the moment is to deliver you to Dar es Salaam.”

  Imperial German Cruiser SMS Konigsberg, Indian Ocean, 1915

  CHAPTER 34

  A Jungle Sanctuary

  Several days of sailing north from the Portuguese colony brought the SMS Konigsberg just south of the small island of Mafia. It was across from the mouth of the Rufiji River, both located in southeastern German East Africa on the Indian Ocean. Markus was on deck with a group of junior officers.

  “The Captain says we must lay to for needed repairs,” began the officer of the deck, “and here is where we will do it. We’re heading up that river, out of sight of possible enemy ships before we sail north to Dar es Salaam. Clever, wouldn’t you say?”

  Markus scanned the far shoreline. For as far as he could see, there was jungle down to the beach. Mangroves as thick as giant birds’ nests clustered around the mouth of a delta of channels emptying into the Indian Ocean.

  “We’re going to take this ship in there? Is it deep enough? Seems we’ll run aground for sure.”

  “Captain Looff knows what he’s doing … and we’ve got to service the boilers and wait for the coal tender. The bunkers are getting low.” They both watched intently as the four-hundred-foot-long ship slowly maneuvered its way up one of the several channels of the Rufiji. A day of expert navigating eased the mighty German cruiser several miles upstream through shallow, winding bends in the jungle-shrouded river.

  “It’s surprising to me that a big ship like this could ever be brought this far inland from the sea,” Markus stated in true amazement. “We can almost reach across the gunwales and touch the jungle.” They both grinned as the turbines slowed and deck hands scurried around, securing lines and performing other duties.

  Markus stayed busy onboard several days, making wireless contact with Doctor Schnee, governor of the colony, and Colonel von Vorbeck, overall military commander. He waited patiently for his escort.

  For the last several months, the British had been making numerous, aggressive incursions into German territory, and it was vital that Markus have safe passage to the wireless station to complete his assignment. His precious cargo of advanced wireless instruments was always at his side.

  While waiting for his escort to arrive at the Konigsberg’s isolated location, Markus noted the extensive efforts to camouflage the ship and conceal any trace of its hiding place. Vegetation was cut to cover the vessel, and shore batteries were placed at the mouth of the Rufiji, using several of the ship’s guns, including two torpedo tubes.

  I can’t imagine the British ever finding her in this God-forsaken place, he thought with satisfaction.

  On a bright, clear day in July, 1915, a detachment of Uhlans, a unit of German cavalry, appeared shipside. The small company of mounted riders, Markus’s escort, was welcomed aboard for a generous midday meal. Both the sailors and the soldiers were glad to see each other, creating a sense of mutual camaraderie. Markus was sitting with the escort commander, Lieutenant Mueller, and Captain Looff, enjoying the conversation.

  Suddenly the ship’s alarm bell clanged furiously—a sound Markus was all too familiar with filled his ears. Over the din of the alarm bell and the clamor of dozens of running men, tipping over chairs and shouting orders, he could distinctly hear the roar of an aeroplane engine. And it was flying low, very low.

  Obviously, the pilot had spotted the ship, and by the sound of the engine, Markus could tell it was circling around for a second look. As he passed through the iron doorway onto the deck, Markus jerked back involuntarily for a second at the sound of a volley of scattered rifle shots, banged out from the ship’s sea marines, who were on deck. The riflemen swung their guns rapidly, trying to lead the aeroplane. It was over in seconds.

  “That’s it! They’ve spotted us now,” someone shouted.

  “Did you get a look at its marking? British, right? Was it British?” The marines looked at each other.

  “It had no markings, nothing … nothing on the wings!” The questions came fast and furiously: “Where did it come from? How could an aeroplane be way out here?”

  “This is German territory—Do we have aeroplanes here?”

  Captain Looff, after ordering an armed watch, called an immediate meeting of his officers, with Markus in attendance. The heated discussion centered on what the implications were now that “someone”—probably the British or South Africans—had discovered their location. The captain turned to Markus, who had remained silent until then.

  “What do you think, Captain Mathias? Where do you think—” he paused to rephrase his question. “How do you think the British, or whoever, could have flown an aeroplane over my ship?” There was dead silence from the others in the wardroom.

  Markus looked up and hesitated a moment before stating, “There are three possibilities, sir. First of all, it was almost certainly British … or South African with British assistance. But I discount that, for a variety of reasons I’ll skip for now.”

  He looked to the captain for approval. Looff nodded his head slightly, and Markus continued, “Second, the British are experimenting with ship-launched aeroplanes. They’ve created a floating airfield … a launching deck on one of their older ships. I’ve seen a photograph of that modified ship. The deck runs the full length of the ship and is long enough for an aeroplane to take off, with the right wind conditions. It’s still very experimental, sir.”

  He looked around the wardroom table at the dozen or so men. He saw rapt attention and grave concern in their faces.

  “Very good, Captain, and the third possibility?”

  “Ja, I’m not sure, because I only caught a few seconds’ view of the aeroplane, but i
t appeared to have either landing skis or pontoons.” He stopped for a moment, as if working out his further explanation. “Many of the earlier-type aircraft used landing skis, as you probably know. Later skis with wheels were added. A lot of them are still flying.” Again, Markus paused. “But I’m inclined to believe that what I saw were pontoons. It makes the most sense, logistics wise—for the British, I mean. They could tow or, more probably, carry the aeroplane on deck of any ship, then lower it into the water when they wanted to use it. And the ship could carry fuel and spare parts. That’s probably what they did, sir. That’s probably what it was.”

  “Yes, very good, Captain. That means there’re enemy ships off shore. We’re probably safe for the moment, but if they know our location up the Rufiji, we’re bottled up. Their ships are deep draft, so they can’t come up river, and with this jungle coverage, they can’t see us to sight their cannon. But with that aeroplane used as a spotter and shallow draft vessels, they could walk their shells straight to my ship. We’ve got to destroy that aeroplane!”

  Over the next two days, all haste was made to mount machine guns and cannon to bring down the aircraft, should it return.

  These are challenges for the captain and his crew, Markus thought, but not for me. He saddled up with the Uhlans and headed out the next morning, after good luck salutations. Captain Looff gave Markus a salute, a hardy handshake, and a dispatch pouch for Colonel von Vorbeck.

  CHAPTER 35

  Distant Thunder

  Markus was glad when Lieutenant Martenn led the horsemen out of the steaming jungles of the pestilence-infested coastal region and toward the uplands of the Uluguru Mountains. They rode hard for most of the first day toward their goal: Vorbeck’s military headquarters. The air seemed fresher and not so heavy with humidity that late July day of 1915, as the small mounted unit moved to higher elevations. Markus thought about the horses and how it was better for them to be out of the jungle. He reached down and patted his mount’s neck.