iron pirate

by Unknown Author

  Hechler thought suddenly of the young acting-petty officer's face. 'Call away the accident boat at once! Send help.'

  It had been on the way back to the shore after unloading the mysterious cases.

  Froebe watched men running for the main boom beneath which the duty boat was already coughing into life.

  Then Hechler glanced at the placid shoreline. 'I want to know immediately what happened. Everything.' He strode away and wondered if the admiral's launch had seen the explosion, which must have been near the fjord's entrance.

  In war you never accepted even the smallest disaster as an accident.

  Hans Stoecker walked abreast of the lighter's long hatch-covers and turned to watch the cruiser, his home for about a year, as she drew astern, and her details and personality merged like a misty photograph.

  Astern, Prinz Luitpold's motorcutter kept a regular distance, her crew relaxed and unconcerned about the brief break in routine.

  Stoecker was twenty-five and very conscious of his small authority. Even this rusty lighter represented his ship until he could gather the small working party together and return in the motorboat. He watched the SS major, hands in pockets as he chatted quietly with two of his men,, machine-pistols crooked under their arm and not slung on their shoulders.

  Stoecker glanced at the wheel, aft by the low guardrail. Kunz was the helmsman. They had had a few rows since his acting rank had been awarded by the captain. Now he seemed to accept him. And he was a reliable seaman despite his foul mouth.

  Stoecker walked along the side and kept the hatch covers between himself and the SS men. Locked down below there were ten prisoners who had carried the heavy steel boxes to the cradles to be hoisted up the cruiser's side. They had needed careful watching, for Stoecker knew that if just one tackle had been allowed to scrape the paintwork he would have felt Froebe's wrath.

  He smiled and thought of his father who had been recalled to I he navy after a few years' retirement. Too old for active duty, he was in charge of some naval stores in Cuxhaven. How pleased his mother would be after he qualified and they both went home in the same uniform!

  Something touched his ankle. He glanced down, and saw a wiry hand reaching for him.

  He looked quickly around the deck. The SS men were in deep conversation and peering at their watches, the few seamen who had not transferred to the motorboat were sitting on the hatch-covers, looking up at the sun, their eyes slitted with pleasure. Stoecker crouched down and peered through a narrow air vent at an upturned face.

  He had mixed feelings about the prisoners. He did not after all know what they had done - they must have done something. They were dressed in clean, green, smocklike overalls, unnumbered, unlike some he had seen. They had been very docile, even cowed, and any sort of contact writh the sailors had brought a scream of anger from the little major. There was one naval officer aboard, a pale, listless, one-striper who was said to be on light duties after his E-boat had been blown up in the North Sea. Stoecker and his companions had watched the young officer until his indifference and his sloppiness had made them bored.

  He was up in the bows, his back to all of them, shutting them out.

  Stoecker lowered his face. 'Yes, what is it?' He tried to be clipped and formal.

  The man gazed at him, his eyes almost glowing in the gloom of the hold.

  I have a letter.' His German was perfect. 'Could you give it to my family?' He paused and licked his lips. ‘Please!’ The word was torn from his mouth.

  'I can't - I don't see why

  A dirty, folded letter was thrust through the hole, and Stoecker saw the man's thin wrist and arm beneath the green smock. It was raw, and covered with sores. Like something diseased.

  The man whispered, 'I am going to die. We all are. In a way I am glad.'

  Stoecker felt the sweat break out on his neck like ice. The address on the letter was Danish.

  The weak voice said, 'I am, was a teacher.'

  'Ah, there you are!' The major's boot glinted in the sunlight as he came round a hold-coaming.

  Stoecker snapped to attention, his eyes on the sea alongside as the boots clicked towards him.

  He knew that the prisoner's hand had vanished, just as he was sure that nobody had seen him in conversation. But he felt something like panic, the prickle of sweat beneath his cap.

  He was a good sailor, and was secretly proud of the way he had behaved in the actions and bombardments which had been the cruiser's lot since he had joined her. His action station was high up above the bridge in the Fire Control Station, one of the gunnery officer's elite team. Kroll was a hard and demanding officer to serve, but Stoecker had noticed that he was rougher on his officers than the rest of them. Perhaps because he had once served on the lower deck and had had to build his own standards.

  Stoecker knew what he should do, what he should already have done. But he could feel the grubby letter bunched in one hand, and anyway he disliked the major with his snappy arrogance. He doubted if he had ever been near the front line in his life.

  The major snarled, The motorboat is falling too far behind. Tell it to draw closer!'

  Stoecker climbed on to the hold cover and raised his arm until the boat's coxswain had seen his signal. What was the matter with the man? The boat was at exactly the right distance. The coxswain would not hold the job otherwise, Froebe would have made certain of that.

  The major watched as the motorboat's bow-wave increased and said sharply, 'See that it keeps up!'

  Stoecker saw the two SS men watching, the way they were gripping their machine-pistols. Afterwards he recalled that they had looked on edge, jumpy.

  The explosion when it came was violent and sharp, so that the side-deck seemed to bound under Stoecker's feet, as if it was about to splinter to fragments.

  The dozing sailors leapt to their feet, and even as the motorboat increased speed and tore towards them, the lighter's engine coughed, shook violently and died.

  Kunz shouted, 'No steerage way!' He stood back from the wheel, his eyes fixed on a billowing cloud of smoke which was spouting up through a ventilator.

  The major shouted, Get that boat here!' He glared at Stoecker. 'What are you gaping at, you dolt?'

  Stoecker stared at the hatch coaming. Smoke was darting out as if under great pressure, and he could hear muffled screams, and the thuds of fists beating on metal.

  The major flipped open his pistol holster and added, 'Sabotage! There may be another bomb on board.'

  The motorcutter surged alongside, but when some seamen tried to climb aboard the major screamed, 'Get back, damn you! It's going down!'

  Stoecker looked at the pale-faced naval officer and pleaded, 'We could get them out, sir!'

  Over the officer's shoulder he saw one of the SS men swinging the clamp on the ventilator to shut off the dense smoke.

  The officer stared at him glassily. 'Do as you are told. Abandon now!'

  Stoecker felt his eyes sting as the smoke seared over him, and he peered at the little slit where the prisoner's arm had been. Only smoke, and even the cries had stopped. Like a door being slammed. He felt Kiinz grip his arm and hiss, 'Come on, Hans! Leave it!' Then all at once they were clambering into the motorcutter, and when he looked again Stoecker saw that the lighter was already awash and sinking fast in the current.

  The major said, 'Take me ashore.'

  The boat turned towards the land again and Stoecker saw a naval patrol launch and some other craft heading towards the smoke at full speed.

  He looked down at his fingers, which were clasped together so tightly that the pain steadied him. Some of the seamen sighed as the lighter dived beneath the surface, and one said, 'Lucky it didn't happen when we was alongside the old Prinz, eh, lads?'

  No one answered him, and when Stoecker again lifted his eyes he saw the major was watching him. He appeared to be smiling.

  They barely paused at the pier before turning and heading back at speed for the ship. It seemed important to all of them that
they should be there, with faces they knew, and trusted.

  There had been a black car waiting for the major and his men. He apparently offered a lift to the young naval officer, but the latter merely saluted and walked away.

  Stoecker put his hand inside his jacket and touched the letter. The man had known he was going to die. He remembered the SS men looking at their watches. Most of all, he remembered the major's smile.

  He looked up as the heavy cruiser's great shadow swept over them. He had expected to find comfort in it, but there was none.

  Chapter Three

  And So Goodbye

  One day after the admiral's visit to the ship the news of leave was announced. It was little enough of an offering and brought a chorus of groans from most of the mess-decks and wardroom alike. Only seven days' leave would be allowed, and first preference for married men only. The rest of the ship's company, by far the greater proportion, was confined to local leave on Danish soil, with no sleeping-out passes below the rank of petty officer.

  For the lucky ones seven days would be precious but pared away by the time taken to reach their destinations and return to the ship. It was rumoured that rail transport was always being delayed or cancelled due to day and night air raids.

  As the men were lined up and inspected in the pale sunshine before rushing ashore to the waiting buses and trucks, Fregattenkapitan Theil reminded them of the seriousness of careless talk and the damage it could do to morale. Anyone who witnessed bomb damage or the like would keep it to himself, nobody would gossip about the ship, the war, anything.

  Viktor Theil left the ship himself as soon as the others had departed. His home was in Neumunster on the Schleswig-Holstein peninsula, so he had less distance to travel than most.

  As he sat in a corner of a crowded compartment in a train packed to the seams with servicemen and a few civilians, Theil reflected on the choice of a home. Not too far from Denmark. Now it seemed ironic, something to mock him.

  The train crossed the frontier and clattered at a leisurely pace through the Hans Andersen villages, and the green countryside with its scattered lakes and farms. It was a beautiful part of the country, especially to Theil who had been born and brought up in Minden. At least, it should have been.

  He thought of his wife Britta, their nice house on the town's outskirts, the perfect retreat for a naval officer on leave. He was known there, and certainly respected, especially when he was appointed to the Prinz Luitpold.

  But he sensed people watched him, wondered what he really thought, if he cared. For Britta was Danish, and marriages from across the border were common enough before the war. It was often said that the Germans on the peninsula were more like Danes than they were. That too had a bitter ring for Theil.

  When the German army had invaded her country Britta had tried to discover what had happened to her parents. Her father was a printer in Esbjerg, but he also managed a local newspaper. It had begun with letters and telephone calls, none of which had been answered. In despair she asked Theil to make enquiries but he had met with a stone wall of silence from the security offices. Eventually, when he was on a brief home leave, a plain-clothes police officer had called to see him. He was fairly senior and eager to be friendly and understanding.

  'Your wife probably does not understand the need for security in these matters

  Theil had tried to delve deeper and the policeman had said, 'You are a well-respected officer, a fine career ahead of you. Why spoil things, eh?'

  W'hen he had departed. Theil explained as well as he could to his wife. Perhaps her father had been in some political trouble, and was being kept out of circulation until things settled down. It had been the first time which he could recall when she had turned on him .

  She had shouted, 'Settle down! Is that what you would call it if the Tommies came here and started locking people in jails for wanting their country, their freedom!'

  That leave had ended badly, and Theil had returned to his ship, which unbeknown to him was about to be called to action when the captain finally cracked under the strain and he himself by rights should have been promoted and given command. If not of the Prinz Luitpold then another of similar status. Instead, Hechler came.

  Then Theil had received a message from a friend in Neumunster. He had not said much, but had sounded frightened, and it had been enough to make Theil hurry home after giving a vague explanation to his new captain. The ship was to be in the dockyard for a w'eek, and anyway he knew that Hechler wanted to come to terms with his command on his own, and at his own speed.

  The news had been worse than he had imagined. Britta had gone to her parents' home alone. In spite of the strict travel restrictions, the impossibility of moving about in an occupied country without permission, she had managed to reach the port

  of Esbjerg.

  When Theil had confronted her he had been stunned by her appearance. She had been close to a breakdown, angry and weeping in turns. That night when she had finally allowed him to put her to bed she had shown him the great bruises on her arms. The military police had done that to her when they had dragged her from the house where she had been born.

  When he had tried to reason with her, to calm her, she had pushed him away, her eyes blazing, and cried, 'Don't you see? They've killed my mum and dad! Don't you care what those butchers have done!'

  The doctor, another old friend, had arrived and had given her something.

  When she had finally dropped into a drugged and exhausted sleep he had joined Theil over a glass of brandy.

  Theil had asked desperately, 'What should I do? There must be some mistake, surely? The authorities would never permit -'

  The doctor had fastened his bag and had said crisply, 'Keep it to yourself, Viktor. These are difficult times. Perhaps it is best not to know all the truth.' He had fixed him with a grim stare. 'You are a sailor. Be glad. At sea you know your enemies.' He had gone, leaving Theil with his despair.

  As time wore on Britta withdrew more and more into herself. The local people tried to be friendly but she avoided them for the most part. She had been a pretty girl when he had married her; now she seemed to let herself go. Theil always regretted that they had no children, preferably boys to grow up in his footsteps and serve Germany. Once it had distressed her that she could not give him a child. The last time it had been mentioned Theil had found himself almost wanting to strike her.

  'A babyl What would you give it? A black uniform and a rubber truncheon to play with!'

  Theil walked the last part of the journey from the railway station. It had always been a pleasant little town but he noticed that the queues of people outside the provision shops seemed longer, and the patient women looked tired and shabby.

  And yet the town had escaped the war apart from a few stray bombs from homebound aircraft. The sky was empty of cloud as it was of the tell-tale vapour trails of marauding aircraft. It was almost like peacetime.

  Theil was too deep in thought to glance at the bulletin boards outside the little church, and the people who were studying the latest casualty lists which like the queues were longer than before.

  He thought of the case which he shifted from one hand to the other to return the salutes of some soldiers from a local flak battery. It was heavy and contained among other things, cheese and butter, Danish bacon and eggs which might bring a smile to her lips. She had enough to worry about without the damned shortages.

  He had written to her several times since that last, unnerving leave. She had only replied once, a loose, rambling letter which had told him very little. Britta was never a great writer of letters. Their leaves spent together had always made up for that. He quickened his pace. This time it would be all right again. Just like all those other times. It must be.

  Whatever his personal worries might be, Theil was a professional to his fingertips. He had noted all the recent happenings, not least the arrival of the rear-admiral, an officer whose face and reputation were rarely absent from the newspapers.

>   It might be his chance. The Prinz Luitpold was obviously earmarked for something important. That meant dangerous, but you took that for granted.

  Perhaps he had been hard on Britta, or had written something in a letter which had upset her without intending it.

  She had to understand, and be seen to be with him, no matter what. It was bad about her parents, but then he had never really got to know them. They should have considered her before they became involved with some political or subversive activity.

  It was so unfair that because of it, his future might be endangered and her health also.

  He thought of the ship lying up there in Danish waters. He knew the Prinz better than any of them. They would all need him when they were really up against it.

  He turned on to the quiet road which led to his house; it was the last one in a line of five. Nothing was changed, and the flowers and shrubs in every garden made a beautiful picture after grey steel and the Gulf of Riga.

  They would have three, maybe four days together. Then he would go back to the ship. As second-in-command he must be on time even at the expense of losing a day or so. But the leave would be just right. Like a reminder and a memory. A hope too for the future.

  He thought he saw a woman in the neighbour's house, bending perhaps to pick up some flowers. When he looked again she had gone. He was glad. He did not want to loiter and discuss the war, rationing, and all the other complaints.

  Theil reached the gates to his own garden and shifted his grasp on the heavy case. He squared his shoulders and wondered if anyone was watching. 'He's back.' He could almost see himself in his best uniform with the decorations and the eagle across his right breast.

  He looked at the garden and hesitated. It was not like Britta to allow it to become so neglected. It was dry, and dead flowers drooped over the neat driveway, running to seed. It was unheard of. He held back a sudden irritation and strode to the main door. He fumbled with his key, expecting at any moment for the door to open and for her to stand there staring up at him. Her flaxen hair might be untidy but he would see it as before. Her dress would be for doing jobs about the house, but to him it would be like the silk one he had once brought her from France.