Exiting to the deck, he saw that Felix, one of the young deckhands, stood ready for his part in the play. A slight lad, he wore a kimono and a black wig, as well as the standard conical hat. His delicate hands steered a pink baby carriage, and in the carriage lay a doll from Karstadt’s in Berlin. Max wondered who on the Naval War Staff had been ordered down to the department store to purchase the doll. “Expect the unexpected in war,” Admiral Tirpitz had said, although he hardly could have imagined that assignment.
“Ready, Felix?”
“Ja, Herr Oberleutnant.” His deep voice brought a smile to Max’s face.
“Off we go, then.”
They began to stroll around the deck, which had been scrubbed to a dazzling whiteness that morning as every morning. Captain Hauer insisted on it. The importance of proper appearances was a rule upon which he and Langsdorff would certainly have agreed. Max had come to understand their preoccupation. Scrubbed decks and polished buttons, caps worn per regulations, and hammocks lashed up and stowed each morning in the proper manner reminded the men that they were members of a proud service, and that discipline was the hallmark of that service. But today Max and Felix had left the navy behind: they were just an innocent couple giving their infant some sea air. Other sailors, also in costume—white headbands and shirts worn outside their trousers in the Japanese fashion—worked topside, swabbing the decks, chipping paint, doing the kind of routine maintenance performed on any merchantman, especially one as efficiently run as Osaka Maru, the Japanese freighter Meteor had been disguised to resemble. Unfortunately, Breslau had told Max, the characters on the stern had been copied from a Kodak advertisement in a Japanese magazine; for all he knew the characters might spell out: “Want better pictures? Buy Kodak film!”
Max clasped his hands behind his back in the relaxed posture of a strolling father. “Talk to me, Felix. We’re supposed to be the proud parents of a wonderful baby.”
“Why do I have to be the woman, Herr Oberleutnant?”
“Because you’re slight like a woman.”
Felix said nothing. He set his mouth and stared down at their wooden baby, swaddled in a pink blanket.
That was the problem with these sailors on Meteor. Seekriegsleitung had expected the raider to have a short life, so they manned her with the sweepings of the Kriegsmarine. But their assumption had proven wrong; the ship had already survived for thirteen long months. Thirteen months at sea was a difficult achievement for a crew that possessed the dash and polish of Graf Spee’s men, but it was impossible to expect a second-rate crew to be out so long, never sighting land, never being with a woman, never getting drunk. Their only pleasure came once a week when the bosun issued each man two bottles of Japanese beer brought along with their other supplies by Dresden; the original store of Beck’s was drunk long ago. Only Captain Hauer’s iron discipline had kept the men under control.
“Look, Felix, a porpoise.”
Felix didn’t bother to look. “I’ve seen enough porpoises to last me a lifetime, Herr Oberleutnant.”
What could he talk to this surly youngster about? They had to keep their lips moving so that from a distance they would genuinely appear to be a Japanese couple on a stroll. Max knew that on the other ship, in this case a British merchantman five kilometers off their bow, several pairs of binoculars would be on them. Hauer nudged Meteor on a slowly converging course with the freighter. If they could get within two kilometers before their ruse was discovered, the Brits would be under their guns and have no choice but to heave to with no wireless transmitting.
But two kilometers was a very close range, so everything about Meteor’s disguise had to be perfect. A whiff of suspicion, the smallest detail out of place, the glint of sun off a brass button, and the British ship would flee at flank speed, filling the air with the dreaded RRR signal, “Under attack by surface raider.” They had to get that close because Meteor’s guns were old, built before the First War. They lacked the range and the accuracy of modern naval cannons. Her guns were concealed by hinged sections of the hull that operated on a counterweight system. One pull and the metal flaps collapsed to reveal the weapons.
Everyone had worked long hours to transform Meteor into Osaka Maru. Breslau had pored over Lloyd’s shipping register for weeks before they sailed, searching through the names and descriptions of several thousand merchant ships, looking for a vessel of roughly eight thousand tons from a neutral country with a silhouette similar to that of Meteor. As part of the hoax, the masts and ventilators were painted yellow, the funnel painted black with a bright red top. When Max first saw her a month ago from the deck of Dresden, he had been convinced. So far two British merchant ships had fallen for the ruse. Max hoped they were closing in on a third victim.
“Now Felix, tell me about yourself. Where are you from?”
“I’m from Danzig, Herr Oberleutnant.”
“Danzig. I see—a Prussian like me.”
“Yes, sir. A Prussian.” Certainly the boy didn’t have the discipline of a Prussian. He seemed more like a Bavarian.
“And you had a job in Prussia before you came into the Kriegsmarine?”
“Group leader in the Reich Labor Service, Herr Oberleutnant.”
Not a lad with all his cups in the cupboard, Max thought. The Labor Service managed the flow of teenagers putting in their obligatory six months of work for the benefit of the Reich. They marched in parades wearing storm trooper uniforms and carrying polished shovels at right shoulder arms. The shovel was the proper symbol since they spent most of their time digging ditches. Felix had obviously stayed on after his six-month service to serve as head ditch digger, but he didn’t seem to have much respect for authority now. Probably heard too many Nazi Party slogans about equality. Max could think of nothing else to say, so the two fell into a tense silence. They made a full lap of the deck that way before Meteor suddenly went to full speed.
With a loud boom, the hinged portion of the hull gave way and exposed the guns, which fired immediately. Because Meteor had no firing gong, the loud report of the batteries surprised him. Max dashed for the bridge. The six-inch guns barked again, the sound sharp in his ears. He smelled cordite mixed in with the salt air. Just as he came onto the bridge, the signalman reported, “Wireless transmitting stopped, Herr Kapitän. She only got one signal off.”
“Cease firing.”
The gunnery officer spoke into the circuit that connected him with the gun captains and the shooting stopped. Because Meteor had no system of centralized fire control, the gun captains aimed and fired their individual batteries as in the days of sail.
“She’s struck her colors,” Max said, peering at the Britisher through his binoculars now.
Hauer rapped out his orders: “Boarding party away. Engines all stop. Guards on deck. Oberleutnant Brekendorf.”
Max came to attention. “Ja, Herr Kapitän?”
“You will escort the prisoners below and see that they are settled.”
“Jawohl, Herr Kapitän.”
“Signalman.”
“Ja, Herr Kapitän.”
“Ask the radio officer to cancel the distress signal.”
“At once, Herr Kapitän.”
A difficult maneuver, Max knew. Meteor carried several reservists who had been telegraphers aboard merchant ships and tapped the Morse key with a merchantman’s feel. Sometimes they could cancel a British distress signal by tapping out that it had been a mistake, but British operators could usually tell the way a German signaled, even if the German had a civilian touch. Rarely could the Brits be fooled.
Max left the bridge, went to his cabin, and removed the Japanese disguise. Damned if he would confront the enemy in a straw hat. The British lifeboats were in the water and rowing toward Meteor by the time he came up on the main deck. He watched the small boats bobbing on the light swell. The sea was calm and deep blue in the bright afternoon sun. They were twelve hundred kilometers southwest of Java with weather warm and fair. Pray it stayed that way. The Brits reache
d Meteor in short order, and the first man up the ladder was the captain, binoculars still at his neck.
Max saluted. “Captain, I am Senior Lieutenant Brekendorf, second watch officer of the auxiliary merchant raider Meteor.”
“I can bloody well see that, young man. If I had been on the bridge instead of my fool of a second officer, you’d never have gotten within five miles of me, laddie.”
“I’m sure of it, Herr Kapitän,” Max said. Even on the verge of losing the war, the arrogance of these Englishmen never stopped.
The rest of the British officers came up the ladder, followed by their crew—thirty Africans, each one dark as chocolate. Lascars, the English called them—natives they used to crew ships because they worked cheaper than English sailors. Max had encountered Lascars before, on a small freighter captured by Graf Spee, but the sight of so many still surprised him. He’d seen an African only once in his entire life before going to sea. That was with his father, in Berlin in 1925. Negroes from the former German Cameroons sold fruit on the streets in those days, and Max’s father had bought him a banana from one of the men. But Max was so frightened that he just cried. Finally his father ate the banana himself. On Spee, Max had learned that Lascars came mainly from British colonies in Africa and India. They seemed to feel that one group of white men was the same as the next, and they were just as happy to work for the Germans as the British. Langsdorff had assigned them to cleaning the interior of the ship, and the Lascars fell upon the task with great vigor.
When everyone from the British ship had assembled on deck, Max addressed them: “Gentlemen, you are now prisoners of the German navy. You will be treated in accordance with the rules and regulations governing the treatment of prisoners of war under the Geneva Convention. There are already seventy-four prisoners on board and you will be confined with them. You are free to roam the deck during daylight hours and make use of the swimming pool and library as long as you stay out of the way of the crew and do not interfere with their work. All sailors remain under the authority of their officers and our orders to you will be given through them.” The British captain raised his hand. “Yes, Captain?”
“We won’t be expected to bunk in with these chaps, will we?” He inclined his head toward the Lascars.
“No, Captain. Officers all bunk together and are attended by their stewards.”
This pleased the captain and he nodded. “But you’re not going to bunk these niggers in with the English crews? I mean…”
Max thought for a moment. Putting the Lascars in with British crewmen they had previously captured would cause problems. He hardly wanted to be called to task by Captain Hauer for not foreseeing this. “No, Captain. We will not mix the men together. This way, if you please, gentlemen.”
Max led them down the main deck, past the ship’s crane to the aft companionway. The prisoners followed him down the narrow metal stairs to the lowest deck of the ship, which was below the waterline. Max gave a curt nod to the sentry on duty, who casually produced the key to the officers’ brig and offered it over. Did no one on this ship move with the snap of a real German navy man? Max refused the key. He pointed to the door and barked, “Open it!” That was the only way to deal with these loafers.
Max stepped into the large cabin, which was lined with bunks on both walls. The eleven British officers already in residence were enjoying their first drink of the afternoon. “Hello, old boy,” the senior man said. “Steward, chota peg for these officers. More guests, lads. Do come in, chaps, come in. Damned sorry to see you.” He stuck out his hand to the new captain. “Carruthers, Duchess of Connaught.”
“Philbrick,” said the new captain. “Durmitor.”
Once the introductions had been made, Carruthers assigned bunks to the new prisoners and helped them stow their meager personal effects.
“You’ll be let out once we’re under way,” Max said. He returned to the corridor and led the colored crewmen to the mine room. There were no mines anymore—they’d all been laid months ago off the South African coast, back when Max was still languishing in Buenos Aires. “In you go,” he ordered. The men filed in one by one and seated themselves disconsolately on the floor. “Who’s the senior man among you?”
“Nkhomo,” said a tall, older man, indicating himself.
“We will send in bedding for you. Crews mess together, officers served first. That is all. I expect you to keep order in here. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sahib.” Nkhomo inclined his head in a bow.
Max had never been addressed this way before, but he liked it. Sahib. No wonder the British were so fond of their colonies. Moments after he left the Lascars, he realized he’d forgotten to ask Captain Philbrick for his binoculars. Prisoners were not allowed to keep seafaring instruments of any kind—in fact, Max should have searched everyone’s baggage. Damn. It wasn’t like him to be so neglectful of his duty. Was the lackadaisical atmosphere of the ship beginning to affect him as well? He had to be better than that. He must be better than that.
He had almost reached the officers’ brig when the loudspeaker blared: “Oberleutnant Brekendorf to the bridge.”
Max hesitated, then made for the bridge. Hauer and Breslau were waiting for him when he got there, looking over the British cargo manifest. “Ah, our Japanese gentleman,” Breslau said. “Be a good fellow and have a glance at this for us, Oberleutnant.”
Max spoke better English than any of the other officers, something Hauer seemed to resent. He took the document from Breslau. Across the top in bold letters: Official Cargo Manifest. Below that: If the responsible officer feels that this manifest may fall into the hands of forces hostile to H.M. Government, he may dispose of
it in accordance with Admiralty instructions issued 20 September 1939 in Notices to Mariners Vol. III/p12/ParagraphE.
“Cotton,” Max said, continuing to read. “She’s loaded with cotton from Bombay in transit to a convoy forming up off Cape Town.”
The explosion surprised Max so much that he dropped the manifest.
“She’s going,” Breslau said.
“The boat’s still standing off,” the watch officer cautioned.
Max collected the papers from the deck, then removed his binoculars from their bracket and peered at the burning ship. Meteor’s launch was standing off about ten meters from the Britisher.
“The recall signal, now!” Hauer ordered. A deep-throated whistle split the air, then split it again.
Another explosion. Through his glasses Max saw a figure come on deck—grinning, of all things. Dieter. Max knew his friend loved being the engineer on the demolition party. “I can’t decide which I like better,” he’d once said, “working with dynamite or cavorting with fräuleins.” He certainly had a will to mayhem that fit nicely with the work of blowing things up.
Dieter ran down the tilting deck of the British ship, climbed the rail, threw his cap toward the boat, and dived overboard. His grinning sailors hauled him and his cap into the launch and came full speed for Meteor.
Binoculars still to his eyes, Hauer said, “One day Falkenheyn is going to cut it too damn close.” He frowned disapprovingly, but Max felt certain that strict as he was, the captain enjoyed Dieter’s irrepressible behavior as much as everyone else did.
Max stayed on the bridge till they were under way, then took leave to return to the brig and search the belongings of the British. He found the officers standing in a loose group when he came out onto the main deck. Approaching Philbrick, he said, “I’m afraid, Captain, that I shall have to trouble you for your binoculars.”
Philbrick gave him a bitter look. “Afraid you’re too bloody late.
One of your souvenir-hunting Nazi chums already beat you to them.”
“I’m sorry, Captain, I have no idea what you mean.”
“Well, too bloody bad for you,” Philbrick said, turning away.
Carruthers came forward, smiling weakly, and took Max’s arm. “It’s like this, old boy. Seems that after you brought along the
new fellows, two of your chaps came into our cabin and searched their luggage. Looking for contraband, that sort of thing, they said. Captain’s orders, they said. Seems they found some whiskey, which they pinched. Then they noticed the binoculars around Philbrick’s neck and pinched those as well. Spoils of war and that sort of thing, eh? But the whole business smelled rotten and I’m afraid Philbrick is rather browned off. Can’t say as I blame him, either.”
Max struggled to compose his features. “They said, ‘Captain’s orders’?”
“That’s right, old boy.”
“Please come with me, Captain,” Max said. He led Carruthers below. A theft so brazen could not go unpunished. For a crewman to steal anything from a prisoner of war was against the regulations of the Kriegsmarine and a violation of the Geneva Convention. Such theft was a serious breach of discipline. To engage in such thievery while pretending to be under orders from the captain was an even more serious breach of discipline. They made their way through the ship to Hauer’s cabin, whereupon Max rapped on the door and stated their names. Immediately the captain admitted them and Max handled the translation as Carruthers repeated his story.
Hauer sat speechless for a moment when it was over, his face red with anger. Whether his headaches and stomach trouble were the product or the cause of his quick temper, Max had been unable to tell, but this incident drove him to fury. “Captain, I must apologize most deeply to you and your comrades. Only Oberleutnant Brekendorf has the authority to search prisoners.
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