Sink or Capture! (Commander Cochrane Smith series)

by Alan Evans

  An hour before the dawn the tug was close to the limit of Norwegian territorial waters when her skipper grunted past the stubby pipe stuck in one corner of his mouth, “There they are.” He pointed and Fritsch peered out at the heaving sea, for a moment saw nothing but then he made out the two distant, different shadows in the night and recognised them as ships.

  Kapitän-zur-See Gustav Moehle had made his decision in the night, with Brandenburg crippled: “We’ll stop inside Norwegian waters and transfer the prisoners taken from Orion to Altmark. Then she can potter home on her own and we’ll go direct. One other thing: she made a signal not long ago that the prisoners she already has aboard are growing restless and her captain has asked for some men and an officer.” He glanced at Kurt Larsen, “I want you to do it. Take half a dozen good men and a petty officer.” That suited Kurt; he would have volunteered if not ordered.

  So now he stood with three of his little party in the sternsheets of Brandenburg’s pinnace, crowded with the men from Orion, as it wallowed through the swell towards Altmark. The petty officer, Horstmann, stood in the bow with the other three men of the escort. All of the guards were watchful with rifles ready because the prisoners sitting or standing in the well between them, like those aboard Altmark, were restless, sullen and defiant. Any attempt on their part to take over the pinnace would be foolhardy but there might be a desperate soul or two among them.

  Then there was the girl. She sat in the sternsheets by Kurt but they did not look at each other. There had been one startled exchange of glances when she had first come aboard Brandenburg but from then on they had ignored each other on the rare occasions when they met, she allowed on deck for exercise, he passing by.

  Kurt had wondered uneasily more than once whether he should tell his captain — but what? He had paid court to the girl in Berlin before the war and had later come to suspect that she had been involved in the underground resistance to the Nazis. That was all it was, suspicion. But he did not want to point that finger at her in Hitler’s Germany, for her sake and his. Mud of that sort could stick and he might be asked why he had not reported his suspicions before. But anyway, she was a prisoner now and the past was behind them. He had decided it would be safer for both of them if they acted as if they had only just met and that seemed to suit the girl. But he worried about her fate when she reached Germany.

  She was blonde and blue-eyed, pretty, but there was more to her than that. Her head barely reached Kurt’s shoulder and she was shapeless in the borrowed oilskin, her legs in their slacks showing below, but she had a lithe body that turned men’s heads. Kurt had seen it happen. This was an attractive woman, sensual and sexual.

  Sarah was glad to be out of Brandenburg, apprehensive about Altmark looming black in the night and worried about her reception in Germany. The Gestapo wanted her. She had fled from them to Poland less than a year ago and they had murdered her mother and stepfather.

  Kurt felt her shudder, glanced sidewise at her and muttered, “Are you all right?”

  She was pale now but she nodded. She understood, though Kurt had spoken in German. She had lived in Berlin for fifteen years and spoke the language like a native. There was no point in pretending she did not. Kurt Larsen remembered her, as he would. They had spent a large part of that last summer before the war in each other’s company. She had to trust him not to give her away, and did. At the same time she knew she could ask for no more. There was no question of asking him to help her to escape because he would not. He was fiercely patriotic and she was an enemy now.

  The pinnace slid in alongside Altmark’s hull. Jacob’s ladders dangled from the deck above and Kurt grabbed at one of them. He told Sarah, “You follow me up. I’ll send a line down for your case.” It stood by Sarah’s knee and held everything she had been able to cram into it before hurriedly leaving Orion at gunpoint.

  She saw him climb over the bulwark above her and seconds later a line snaked down the side of the ship to be caught by one of the guards. Sarah climbed the ladder but before she reached its head the case jerked upwards past her at the end of the line and was taken inboard. Then Kurt’s hand was under her arm, half-lifting her over the bulwark and she stood on the deck of Altmark.

  Kurt called, “Who is taking charge of these prisoners?” There were no lights showing except shaded torches held by some of Altmark’s crew. Kurt thought that, as they were in Norwegian waters then the two ships could have been lit up like Christmas trees. But they did not want to betray their presence to any searching British ship, particularly the cruiser that had dogged them for the last twenty-four hours. And they did not want the Norwegians to see any prisoners being transferred. They should have been freed in neutral waters so this was a breach of the Geneva convention. Kurt did not like it but it was Moehle’s decision — or was he under orders?

  A voice answered out of the darkness, “I am taking the prisoners!”

  Kurt found the owner of the voice and saw the prisoners from Brandenburg brought up from the pinnace then taken to the prison flats before the forward well. They were decks originally intended for stores and hastily converted with a few blankets and boxes, an empty oildrum for a lavatory. He had seen them before and shuddered at the thought of being locked down there for the best part of every day.

  The girl had been given a cabin and as he led her aft to it, a seaman following with her case, he said quietly so only she could hear, “If I can help in any way, I will. You only have to ask.” He saw a tug manoeuvring to come alongside. There was a man on her deck who appeared to be waiting to come aboard. Kurt wondered, A pilot?

  Sarah said softly, “Thank you.” They came to her cabin and he saw her locked in there, a sentry with a pistol on his belt standing outside. Then he went to report to Altmark’s captain.

  Fritsch was given a large cabin on the upper deck. Two of Altmark’s officers had been turned out of it to squeeze in elsewhere. A folding table came down from the bulkhead and he sat behind this and read the list of the three hundred prisoners now held aboard Altmark. It was only faintly promising. There were more than two hundred seamen, engineers, stewards — including Indian sailors from SS Huntsman — and a number of officers but only three captains. Fritsch sent for them one by one and each captain in turn told him to go to hell.

  Fritsch did not believe it with the first, persisted in his wheedling and threats but neither shook the stolid ship’s captain before him. He wasted less time over the other two. When the last had gone Fritsch cursed in exasperation. Had this entire trip been for nothing? He had been certain that one at least, and probably more, would have agreed to co-operate. Could he salvage something from the wreckage?

  He bent over the list again. The final sheet carried the names of those prisoners taken from the Orion but he had already seen her captain. He turned over that last sheet and tossed the list aside. Then he saw that there was one more name on the reverse of that last sheet but it was headed: Passengers. Then came a solitary name: Sarah Smith.

  No good.

  He leaned back in his chair and his fingers drummed impatiently as he scowled at the list. It was useless. But … His fingers ceased their tapping and he picked up that last sheet again. Sarah Smith. The name reminded him of someone…For several seconds the connection eluded him but then he remembered. Could this be the same girl? It was not an uncommon name. Doubtless there were hundreds of women with the name “Sarah Smith”.

  He shuffled through the stacks of seamen’s discharge books that had come with the list and found the British passport. The date of birth looked right. The passport had been issued when the girl was seventeen, two years before Fritsch first met her. The small photograph was that of a solemn schoolgirl. It could have been that of the young woman he had known but was flat and lifeless.

  There was an easy way to find out.

  He felt a rhythmic shudder start in the deckplates beneath his feet and heard the low beat of Altmark’s engines. She was under way.

  Sarah sat slumped on the bun
k in her cabin, for a moment despairing. She had only exchanged one prison for another. From the time of her capture by Brandenburg’s boarding-party she had hoped for rescue.

  She knew the Royal Navy was sweeping the seas in search of Altmark and the cruiser. She was under no illusions about the risks she would run if they were caught and brought to action. There would be dead and wounded in any battle. But they were risks she was prepared to take rather than be carried back to Germany. Her hopes had risen when she twice heard distant gunfire and felt Brandenburg shake as she fired her salvoes, shudder when she was hit. The Navy had caught her! But then the fighting had ceased and Sarah was still a prisoner. Now she was aboard Altmark and nearer to Germany.

  Remembering the fighting led to thoughts of her father. When she had left Montevideo aboard Orion he had just been made captain of Cassandra and was preparing to sail in her that same day. She was sure he would be involved in the search for the two raiders.

  She looked around the cabin. It was smaller than the one she had been given aboard Orion but comfortable enough. She would not be in it long, only for the time it took Altmark to run down the Norwegian coast then across the Skagerrak and so to Germany. Three days?

  She thought that the men battened down below in the forward hold were destined for a prisoner-of-war camp but that her fate might be different. She shivered, then remembered her father again. He would not have given up hope. Nor would she. Sarah sat straighter.

  Kurt Larsen felt and heard the engines’ throb as he stood on Altmark’s upper deck. The tug had long since steamed off into the night, headed for Trondheim. Brandenburg, his ship, was also under way, her gun-bristling silhouette merging into the darkness as her course and that of Altmark diverged. He would not see her again until he rejoined her in Germany. He watched until she was lost to sight then reluctantly turned to go below. He was proud of Brandenburg and of being one of her officers. He could feel no such emotion for this prison-ship. He had welcomed this duty only for the sake of the girl.

  The seaman found him as he reached the door of his cabin: “Herr Fritsch wants to see the woman prisoner, sir”

  Kurt asked, “Fritsch?”

  “A Gestapo man come aboard from Trondheim to interrogate the prisoners.”

  The tug’s passenger. Kurt thought, Fritsch? Surely not! He had known a Gestapo agent of that name in Berlin before the war, a nasty bit of work. Aloud he said, “Where is he?”

  “I’ll show you.”

  Minutes later Kurt tapped at the door of another cabin and pushed it open. He stood aside to let Sarah precede him and looking over her head saw the man in the chair behind the table and facing the door. The same one.

  Kurt had warned Sarah but she was still shaken at sight of the narrow face behind the desk, the thin hair brushed flat from the knife-edge parting, the slitted eyes. She saw her passport on the desk in front of him. She had grown up in Berlin using her stepfather’s name of Bauer for simplicity’s sake. But when she was seventeen her mother had got her the passport in her own name, wanting her to keep her British nationality.

  Fritsch looked at Sarah first and recognised her as the girl he had known as Sarah Bauer. He saw instant recognition and shock in her eyes, the colour drain from her face. He took a great breath of relief and triumph; this was the woman he wanted. Only then did he turn his gaze on the naval officer who had escorted the woman to this cabin and now stood with his back to the door. It was Fritsch’s turn to be startled, but then he quickly recovered and smiled thinly, “Well, well.”

  Sarah stood before the desk but Kurt Larsen picked up a chair with either hand. He set one behind her and put his hand on her shoulder, gently seated her. Then he sat in the other chair beside her.

  Fritsch watched this, saw the challenge in Kurt Larsen’s eyes but ignored it. He waited until they were seated then said, “How extraordinary that we three should meet again like this.”

  He thought that it was much better if these affairs could be conducted in a civilised fashion. Besides, he could not use the rough stuff aboard this ship. But he was sure it would not be necessary, anyway. He leaned back in his chair, eyes closed, recalling all the details and thinking how he could use this gift that had dropped into his lap.

  He said dreamily, “We met in Berlin last summer. It was not Sarah Smith but Fraulein Bauer then, your stepfather’s name. I introduced you to each other and privately advised Herr Larsen that we in the Gestapo believed that you were mixed up with enemies of the State. Later we caught one of them and when we interrogated him in Prinz Albrecht Strasse he told us a great deal.” He was talking of Gestapo headquarters. “He gave us a number of names and one of them was yours. We looked for you in the house of your mother and stepfather but you had left Germany for Poland only a few hours before.”

  Sarah whispered, “You murdered them.” Kurt saw she was white-faced.

  Fritsch murmured, “There was a fire.”

  “My mother and Ulrich Bauer were in there!”

  “So I understand. But it was an accident.”

  Sarah said, her throat tight, the words choked out of her, “You bastard!” Kurt laid his hand on her arm, a warning gesture; she was a prisoner and once ashore in Germany Fritsch could claim her. Sarah shrugged free.

  Fritsch’s thin lips had tightened but his eyes stayed closed as he went on, “So it seemed we had lost you but we kept digging.” He smiled at Sarah, showing big yellow teeth. “We dug up quite a lot of history. For example, that your mother obtained a divorce from your father and that he is an officer, a captain, in the Royal Navy.”

  “What about it?”

  Fritsch was not going to elaborate on that at this time. He changed his tack: “Another of the names your young friend gave us was that of a Frau Rösing. I understand you were quite close, old friends from schooldays. You got away but she didn’t. Her husband was shot while attempting to escape arrest but he had carelessly made her pregnant not long before.” He paused.

  Sarah demanded, “What have you done to her?”

  Fritsch spread his hands to show them empty. “Nothing. She is in a camp of course: Sachsenhausen.” Sarah knew it: a concentration camp. Fritsch raised his hands and laced the fingers together behind his head. He smiled at Sarah again and it sent a shudder through her. Fritsch saw it, savoured it and said softly, “You know, I think we are going to be friends.” He saw her stiffen in the chair and her head go up, her lips tighten. He thought, She will be stubborn but she will co-operate. If not here, then in Prinz Albrecht Strasse.

  The dawn had broken when Kurt finally escorted Sarah from the cabin and led her towards her own. Her feet dragged and twice she stumbled and he had to take her arm. The sun was hidden still behind the overcast of low cloud and Altmark butted southward through a lumpy grey sea. The coast of Norway lifted a scant mile to port, snow-covered but the white splashed here and there with the brown and green patches of forest.

  Kurt asked sombrely, “Will you agree to do it?”

  “He knows I will,” Sarah said bitterly, “I have no choice.”

  Kurt was silent for a pace or two. He was a patriot and a regular officer in a proud service. He regarded the SS as another but he was uneasy about part of it — the Gestapo. And he had known Fristch of old in Berlin, knew he was evil. He had known this girl, too, was still fond of her though her country was at war with his. He said, “I must warn you. If you think to agree and then renege, they will be — cruel.”

  “I know the kind of torture they inflicted on the man who betrayed me, and the others, and I don’t blame him for breaking. I know what they may do to me.”

  “They disgust me.” His voice was thick with revulsion; he felt physically sick.

  A lookout bawled on the bridge, “Ship starboard beam!”

  They both paused and turned to look out across the grey sea to where it met the clouds in a blurred horizon. Kurt said, “It looks like the British cruiser that’s followed us since the night before last.”

  Sarah sta
red out at the distant ship. It stirred no feelings of hope. She knew very well that Altmark was inside Norwegian territorial waters and so out of reach of any pursuit. She turned away and Kurt Larsen took her to her cabin and locked her in.

  The officers and men of Cassandra had stood to for dawn action stations but now the day had come and Galloway said, “That’s Altmark, sir.”

  “Yes.” Smith slowly turned, glasses moving from the prison-ship to sweep the horizon all round that port side. He stood on the port wing of the bridge with a little group of officers, all of them searching now as he was.

  Kelso crossed from the starboard wing with his rolling walk and reported, “Nothing in sight to seaward. Looks as though Brandenburg has gone home.” He sounded, if not cheerful, then relieved. He peered out at the distant, mountainous coast beyond Altmark. “I spent a month’s leave in Norway. Summer of ‘37. Had a damn good time sailing and I met a cracking girl. Tried my Norwegian on the people in the bars. That was Oslo, though. The year before that I had two weeks in Hamburg when my ship was in there. Had a few runs ashore. Now I could tell you a few things about —”

  Smith lowered the glasses and shot a glance at Ben that shut him up. But Harry Vincent did not see that glance and said, “Altmark is tucked away inside Norwegian waters where we can’t get at her and doubtless she’ll stay inside them all the way to the Skagerrak.”

  Smith rasped, “We’re all capable of working that out, Pilot!”

  Harry shut his mouth and swallowed. The group became quiet. Smith was unaware of the reaction, preoccupied. Altmark, her holds crammed with British prisoners, had got away from him. It might be that his daughter was among those prisoners. Strictly Altmark could not carry them through neutral waters but if the Norwegians challenged her, asked if she carried prisoners, then her captain would deny it. Smith was certain of that. And if he was reckless enough to follow her out of Norwegian waters into the Skagerrak, Germany’s backyard, there would be more than just Brandenburg to deny him.