Sink or Capture! (Commander Cochrane Smith series)

by Alan Evans

  Dobson asked, “What do you mean?”

  Jackman shook his head pityingly, “Where have you been, sunshine? You heard about Calliope? So what price us to sink Brandenburg? We’re chasing her ‘cause we’ve got to, but Gawd help us if we catch her! Tell you what, though, I’ve been talking to Buckley, that big killick that’s the Old Man’s cox’n. Buckley’s known him donkey’s years and from what he tells me I think we might do better with the dug-out up there —” and he jerked his head, indicating the bridge “ — straight off the beach, than some red-hot young skipper with plenty of sea-time and never any experience in action. And Buckley says that with this feller we’ll see plenty of that!”

  He looked around the mess, all their faces looking thoughtful now, then back at Dobson. He muttered, “Gawd give me strength!” And strode away.

  Dobson still had his dreams.

  Cassandra bucketed on through the short winter’s day, the humping seas and howling gale. In the late afternoon the early dusk was already darkening the eastern horizon but briefly the rain ceased and the wind scoured the sky clear. Visibility lifted to port although to starboard the squalls still swept black across the surface of the sea — and Altmark was sighted again: “ … Red Nine-Five!” The hail came from the port side lookout.

  Smith spun around in his chair, searched with his glasses and found the now familiar silhouette: funnel and boatdeck aft, bridge superstructure forward and shallow well-deck between. He had one hand already below the screen and now he thumbed the button that set the alarms clanging throughout the ship.

  Altmark was hull up on the horizon and just abaft the beam. Cassandra was steaming parallel to her but leading her by a mile or so, had caught up with her and passed her in the murk. But where was Brandenburg? Smith still held the glasses to his eyes and picked her out just as the lookout’s hail came again: “Ship Red One-Oh-Five!”

  There she was, again just abaft the port beam and maybe a mile astern of Altmark. It made sense for her captain to have stationed her there, between Altmark and Cassandra coming up astern, and ready to run down to her if she was threatened from any other quarter. Smith knew her captain, Moehle, and that he was no fool.

  He ordered, “Starboard twenty!”

  Kelso had charged onto the bridge and stared at that order because Smith was turning away. Cassandra’s bow swept around and she plunged through the big seas, widening the distance between her and the other two ships, running deeper into the squalls so she was once more enshrouded in rain and near-darkness. The other ships were lost to sight.

  Now Smith ordered, “Port twenty!” And again felt the heel as Cassandra’s slender hull turned. “Midships! Steer that!” Now she was on a course parallel to that of the enemy. He had not reduced speed and the fact that she had overhauled the enemy showed she was making a few knots more than they. So she would be head-reaching on them now and pulling ahead. Smith thought that Sandy Faulknor up in the gunnery control top deserved a word of explanation. He picked up the telephone: “Sandy. You’ll get your chance in a minute or two. Enemy should be on the port quarter.”

  He put the phone down. All the time he had been listening to the “Ready” reports coming in. Now the decks had cleared of running figures and the ship was quiet, waiting. Smith waited, judging the right moment, and when it came: “Port twenty!”

  Cassandra heeled once more then settled on an even keel as Smith’s next order set the helm amidships. She ran down through the gloom of rain driven on the wind, the sky slowly lightening around her, and then burst out of it into that last light of the day.

  It was as Smith wanted it. The sun was now down below the western horizon while to the east the dark band had lifted to a high back drop against which Cassandra would be nearly invisible to Brandenburg’s gunnery staff. There she was, still a mile or so astern of Altmark but now much further astern of Cassandra.

  Smith reached for the telephone: “Sandy. How do you see them?”

  Faulknor almost shouted his excitement, “Beautiful! Clean — hard — black!”

  The ships were etched in outline against the afterglow of the sunset and Cassandra was broadside to them. Smith ordered, “Brandenburg. Open fire!” He replaced the phone and crossed to the port wing of the bridge. In one sweeping glance from bow to stern he saw the barrels of all five guns turning, rising and falling as the bearings and ranges were transferred from Sandy Faulknor and his team in the director to the dials of the guns, the setters there each matching his pointers to those activated by electrical impulse from the director. The barrels steadied, were still, he heard the firegongs clang and then the three guns belched smoke and flame as the broadside was fired.

  Thunder of discharge and the blast was another wind thrusting at his face, cordite stinking on that wind then carried away as Cassandra charged on. All of it was repeated as another salvo was fired. And again. Smith was watching for the fall of shot, glasses held to his eyes. He saw plumes of spray from shells exploding in the sea beyond Brandenburg and a hit or a near-miss, then bursts of shells falling short and he guessed that Moehle had turned away to open the range and to put off Faulknor.

  He ordered, “Make smoke!” And took away the glasses just long enough to rub his eyes and to see the smoke start to roll black and oily from Cassandra’s twin funnels, then he lifted them again. There was another hit on Brandenburg, Smith was sure. And then the flicker of flame showed along the length of her that meant she had fired a salvo.

  He snapped, “Starboard twenty!” Yet another tight turn, deck heeling, staying in the turn as the bridge staff clung on. The after 6-inch guns that would still bear fired again, shaking the lean hull through its length. A moment later it shook again as the salvo from Brandenburg burst in the sea, the shells mostly astern but one close enough to the starboard quarter for Smith to feel the shock of it. Then the guns ceased firing and he ordered, “Midships!”

  Cassandra had turned through one hundred and eighty degrees so now they were running back along the line of their own smoke and Sandy Faulknor reported, “Can’t see the target for the smoke, sir!”

  Smith told him, “Wait.” Cassandra was now hidden from Brandenburg. He counted the seconds as she raced back along her previous course but now with the smoke standing like a range of low, black hills to starboard. Galloway reported, voice squawking over the telephone from aft, “That near-miss back here sprayed us with splinters but did no serious damage. No casualties.”

  “Thank you.” But now Smith decided he and Faulknor had waited long enough. They had to wreak what damage they could while the light lasted. “Hard astarboard!” And then on the phone to Sandy Faulknor, “We’re turning. You should find Brandenburg off the bow.” He heard Sandy acknowledge that.

  The slim grey cruiser heeled again, thrust into the smoke and for seconds it blinded them all on the bridge. It choked them as they breathed so that they coughed it out. Then Cassandra was through it and there was Brandenburg, off the bow as Smith had promised Sandy, but closer now because she had driven in towards the smoke. And she was not such a good target as before because the red wash left by the sun below the horizon had faded and was fading still. Altmark tossing beyond her was almost invisible as the sky darkened.

  “A” gun forward of the bridge bore this time and fired, cracking ears, the yellow muzzle flashes brilliant now as dusk rushed on into night. Brandenburg had been taken by surprise, her guns having to traverse around to lay on Cassandra when she suddenly tore out of the smoke. But Faulknor had those few vital seconds of foreknowledge, the long barrel of “A” gun steadying then recoiling as Sandy triggered it again. And Smith looked around at the sea like pitch under a dark sky and thought that Brandenburg would be having a hell of a job seeing them even though Cassandra was clear of the smoke.

  He held her in the turn to starboard until Brandenburg was on the port beam. Cassandra was broadside to the enemy so that all her guns bore and he ordered, “Midships!” She straightened out, settled on an even keel again. And fired
again, all five guns flashing as one, heeling her over, still pitching like a see-saw as she thrashed on.

  His gaze shifted as rain rattled across the bridge once more and he saw the loom of the squall to starboard. It hung like an arras but was sweeping towards him, seeming blacker than the smoke that was now shredding on the wind astern. He turned his gaze to port, setting the glasses to his eyes, and saw the red ripple along Brandenburg’s hull that marked her salvo. “Starboard twenty!” He thought he had seen a near-miss fall close to her but could not be sure because of the gathering gloom. But now as Cassandra heeled under helm he saw the flash that he was certain marked a hit. That looked to be right aft in the other cruiser.

  He heard Kelso yell, “Hit!” and that was confirmation but now the shells from Brandenburg howled in — fell short and astern. That last helm order had taken Cassandra away from them but they might have fallen short anyway because Moehle’s gunners could barely see their target. And now the squall swept over the ship. One second he could still see the dim, blurred shape of Brandenburg and the next she was blotted out by a wall of rain that hammered on the bridge.

  “Port ten!” To run down towards the enemy, try to maintain some sort of contact; he must not lose them again. There were three hundred of his fellow countrymen aboard Altmark and they were getting desperately close to a German prison camp. But he knew that when Brandenburg saw him she would open fire, so trailing her would mean a running battle. He was under no illusions as to Cassandra’s chances in any such long-drawn-out action.

  Paul Brunner reported to Moehle on Brandenburg’s bridge as Cassandra was hidden by the blanketing squall, “That last hit aft has damaged steering and screw —”

  Kurt Larsen broke in, “What about the prisoners?” And then quickly apologised to his captain as Brunner glared at the interruption.

  Moehle grunted acknowledgment, but remembering that the prisoners taken from the Orion were confined aft, asked Brunner, “Are they all right?”

  The Executive Officer nodded, “It shook them up a bit but none of them were hurt.”

  Kurt wondered about the lone girl among them. She had been the cause of his outburst. He wondered if she had been afraid but dared not ask. That question would bring others from Moehle and Brunner as to why he was concerned. Answering that could put both himself and the girl in danger. He feared for her.

  Brunner went on, “Hessler says he will give us a full report as soon as he can, but it doesn’t look good.” Hessler was the Engineer Officer. “He can’t give us better than fifteen knots and manoeuvring won’t be easy.”

  Moehle swore and banged his fist softly on the bridge-screen, a demonstration of quietly controlled anger and frustration. “Very good,” he acknowledged. He was silent a moment, then thinking aloud: “The captain of that cruiser will be looking for us; he has been all the time. He’ll be running down to us now.” He peered out into the darkness. Once again, he didn’t want to risk a night action, nor any action at all while Brandenburg was thus crippled.

  He grinned and gave his orders, told Brunner, “Make sure Altmark gets that, too. Speed fifteen.”

  He saw the dim blue flicker of the signal lamp passing the order to Altmark to follow as Brandenburg turned 180 degrees, away from the Norwegian coast and running back on her former course. He would take her circling around behind the British cruiser.

  Appleby had found his corner again, backing into it as if guided by some protective instinct. As the shells fell around the ship he twitched and shook, hands to his ears and eyes screwed tight shut. He tried to go out onto the bridge but his legs would not obey him, shook under him so he thought he would fall were it not for the sheltering steel that hid him, held him up. This time he was not alone.

  Dobson had not seen this fight from start to finish though he had been conscious all through this time. He saw nothing from his position in action, waiting as a member of the damage-control party in a passage below decks. But this time he heard the guns, Cassandra’s shaking the bulkhead on which he leaned, and Brandenburg’s, the shells bursting in the sea and the impact on the hull like the beating on a big drum. He was aware of the sea close to him, only the thin steel plates between. He imagined them rupturing and the passage in which he stood flooding green in seconds.

  The near-miss came like a hammer-blow that threw Cassandra aside and hurled Dobson across the passage as if he had been kicked by a giant boot. The others in his party sprawled around him but then bellowed orders jerked them to their feet and they surged back along the passage, answering the summons. Dobson went with them, running and bouncing from side to side of the passage as the deck shifted beneath his feet. But he followed them only as far as the ladder lifting to the deck above. He swerved away from them then, took the ladder on the run but did not go out onto the exposed deck. He huddled down behind a locker, head down between his knees, hands clasped over it, and stayed there, shuddering.

  He had no thoughts of heroics or medals now. He was afraid and he only wanted to stay alive. Down there in the passage he could die an awful death. He knew his friends were still below, knew confusedly that he wanted to be with them, of them, but the fear held him captive in his sanctuary.

  Now it was quiet on the bridge. There was tension still but with it a feeling of anti-climax. Smith felt it, faced the need for another decision and conjured up a mental picture of the chart. Then he told Harry Vincent, “Pilot! I want a course for Trondheim.”

  “Aye, aye, sir!”

  Brandenburg and Altmark had eluded him again. Smith had to accept it after half an hour of searching with nerves strung tight at first but slowly easing as time went by without a sighting or the sudden shock of gunfire. He had guessed wrongly. He had to be right this time. He still believed the enemy ships were bound for Norway. Trondheim would be the nearest landfall. So he would start from there and sweep southwards down the Norwegian coast.

  John Galloway stood at his shoulder and Smith told him, “We’ll stay closed up at action stations in case we run into them again. It would be a good idea if you could organise the galley to turn out some soup or sandwiches and have them taken to the guns.”

  Galloway answered, “I’ve got them working on it now, sir.”

  He would. Smith nodded approval. It was hard to fault the Executive Officer.

  He saw young Appleby standing close up to the bridge-screen, his face a pale smudge in the’ darkness that itself darkened as Appleby became aware that Smith was watching him, and looked away.

  There had been no firing for some time. Dobson uncoiled his lanky body from behind the locker, cautiously and looking to see that he was not observed. He heard the voices echoing below and realised the men of his party were returning to their post in the passage. He ran down the ladder but light-footed and quietly and was able to mingle with the other men as they streamed past the foot of the ladder. He took his first deep breath of relief and celebration of survival then, because no one had seen him.

  He stood anonymous among them where they clustered in the passage, a lot of them talking all at once so he could listen and need not trust his voice. Here he would look as though he was one of them though he knew the truth was different. After a while he found himself relaxing, grinning at some of the jokes and once he laughed. It was then he saw Jackman standing a yard apart from the group. The Petty Officer’s eyes were fixed on him, face expressionless.

  Dobson looked away. Jackman had seen him, Jackman knew.

  On the bridge Smith prayed that they would come up with Altmark the next day and that somehow he would be able to call for help. So long as Brandenburg stood in the way he could not get at the prison-ship. Besides having some three hundred captured seamen locked below her deck she also had Sarah, his daughter, aboard. Because it seemed all Orion’s crew and passengers had been taken off. Please God. Brandenburg had taken the dead from Orion and presumably given them burial at sea. He stared down at the cold dark sea alongside. If Sarah was not a prisoner then the alternative did not bea
r thinking about.

  4

  The tug sailed from Trondheim in the night. Hauptsturm-führer Gerhard Fritsch had chartered her, paying her captain well. Fritsch climbed down to her deck from the quay only minutes before she cast off, his greatcoat flapping about his skinny frame in the wind. Under it he wore the grey-green SS uniform and with one hand he held to his head the high-fronted cap with its death’s-head badge. The Norwegian porter followed him aboard but only to hand Fritsch’s valise to a member of the crew before scuttling ashore again, desperate to escape sailing in the tug with Fritsch. The porter was an instant judge of men and spat in the dirty water of the harbour as he left the tug.

  Fritsch went below to the little saloon, stiflingly hot from the stove burning there. He stayed in the saloon as the tug got under way and ran down the fjord. When she met the open sea she began to lift and plunge. He scrambled up the ladders and out onto the deck and so into the wheelhouse to stand by the skipper at the wheel. Fritsch was not seasick, only impatient. He would soon be at the rendezvous.

  Fritsch was an officer of the Gestapo and it was work that suited him. He was a man of evil nature and in the last few months it had been honed, strengthened and expanded as he worked with the execution squads in Poland. So now he had a talent and a hunger for righteous cruelty “for the good of the State”. Fritsch had tasted blood.

  He was also a man of ambition, determined to rise in his chosen profession by whatever means came to hand. It had been his idea that Altmark’s prisoners should be combed for anyone who might provide a source of propaganda. If necessary he would make do with any British seaman who would go on radio to say that he had been well-treated by his captors, but he hoped for something better. A ship’s captain prepared to condemn the Royal Navy for failing to protect him and rescue him from Altmark, that would be a catch. And he had come to Trondheim rather than wait for Altmark to dock in Germany because he had a shrewd idea that Goebbels, the propaganda minister, would have his people waiting for her there. Fritsch would report to his own master, Himmler, head of the SS, who would use any success to promote his own organisation in Hitler’s eyes.