iron pirate

by Unknown Author

  Theil felt the colour draining from his face. It makes no difference to my ability. None whatever, and anyone -'

  Hechler slid from his chair and moved his legs to get rid of the stiffness.

  I'm going to the sick-bay while it's quiet. Take over.' He eyed him calmly. Shake the load off your back, Viktor. I just wanted you to know that I am concerned for you, not your bloody ability!'

  Theil was stiii staring after him as he clattered down the internal ladder.

  It felt strange, wrong to be off the bridge while the ship was at sea. Hechler saw the surprise on the faces of his men when he passed them while he made his way down two decks to the sick-bay. As a boy he had always hated hospitals, mostly because he had had to visit his gassed father in one; that was when they had promised there was still a good chance of a cure.

  His poor mother, he thought, facing up to those daily visits, passing all the other veterans. No legs, no arms, gassed, blinded, some would have been better off lying in the mud of Flanders.

  And always the bright cheerfulness of the nurses. Coming along nicely. As well as can be expected. It had all been lies.

  He wondered how his father was managing now. He would soon be reading about the Prinz and their exploits.

  His father, so sick but quietly determined to stay alive, was beyond pride. Love would be a better word, he thought.

  The sick-quarters were white and brightly lit. Two medical attendants were putting bottles into shelves, and there was a lot of broken glass in a bucket. The same violent turn had done damage here too.

  Some of the injured men were dozing in their cots, and one tried to sit to attention when he saw his captain enter, his plastered arm sticking straight out like a white tusk.

  Hechler removed his cap and forced a grin.

  'Easy there. Rest while you can, eh?'

  The new doctor was not at all as he had expected. He was forty years old but looked much older. He had a heavy, studious face with gold-rimmed glasses. A lawyer, or a school teacher, you might think if you saw him as a civilian.

  He made to stand but Hechler dosed the door of the sick-bay and sat down. Then he pulled out his pipe and said, 'Is this all right?'

  Karl-Heinz Stroheim watched him warily, one hand plucking at the three gold stripes with the Rod of Aesculapius on his sleeve.

  He said, 'I have dealt with all the casualties. Captain.'

  Hechler lit his pipe. A good feeling, almost sensuous, after being deprived on the bridge.

  '1 thought we should meet, so -' He blew out some smoke. 'So, Mohammet and the Mountain, you see?'

  I'm honoured.'

  'You'll find this a different appointment from your last. The barracks at Wilhelmshaven, right?'

  The man nodded. 'Before that, well, you know about it too.'

  'You were in trouble.'

  A flash of anger came and went in Stroheim's brown eyes. I was too valuable to be thrown out. They put me in uniform instead.'

  'No disgrace in that.' Hechler tried not to listen to the engines' beat. So much closer here.

  He asked casually, 'Abortions, wasn't it?'

  Stroheim's jaw dropped. 'How did you know?'

  '1 didn't. I guessed.' He smiled gravely. 'And I shall put down your lack of respect to the suddenness of your appointment, right?'

  Stroheim thrust his hands beneath the table. 'I - I am sorry, Captain. I went through a lot. One day they will accept my views. Too late for many, I fear. But I have always believed -' he hesitated, as if he expected. Hechler to stop or reprimand him - 'a woman must have the right to choose.' His voice was suddenly bitter, contemptuous. 'There should be a better reason for having .1 child than producing soldiers and more mothers for Germany.'

  1 lechler stood up, his eyes on a bulkhead telephone, 'We'll talk again.'

  Stroheim got to his feet. I'd enjoy that.'

  Hechler glanced round the little office. A pile of records and a portable gramophone, some books, and a box of chessmen,

  Hechler said, 'Don't make this too much like home. Mix with the others. It's not good to be cut off.'

  Stroheim took off his glasses and held them to the light.

  'Like you, do you mean, Captain?'

  Hechler turned away. 'I don't need a consultation just now, I hank you!'

  He paused by the door. Take good care of my men. They did not ask to be here, so you see, they are like you, eh?'

  He made to leave and almost collided with Erika Franke, her left hand bandaged and in a sling.

  She gave a wry smile. 'Next time you change direction. Captain, please let me know. I need both hands for flying, you know!'

  He looked past her at the doctor. 'I was sorry to hear of your injury.'

  She laughed. It was the first time he had seen her really laugh.

  He said, 'Can I see you to your quarters?'

  She became serious, and gave him a mock scowl.

  'So correct, so proper, Captain.' She relented. 'I shall walk with you. I find the ladders a bit difficult at the moment.'

  They reached the upper deck, the passageway in shadows, the steel doors clipped shut.

  She said, 'I would like to visit the bridge again. I hate being shut away down here. I feel trapped.'

  'Any time,' He watched her, the way she moved her head, the colour of her eyes. He had hoped to see her. The doctor had been an excuse.

  A messenger skidded to a halt and saluted. 'There is a message from the bridge, Captain.'

  Hechler strode to a handset which was clipped to the grey steel and cranked the handle.

  He heard Theil's voice, the muted sound of the sea and wind.

  Theil said in a hushed voice, 'The admiral had a signal, sir. Liibeck was sunk.'

  Hechler replaced the handset very slowly.

  She watched him, her eyes concerned. 'May I ask, Captain?'

  He looked at her emptily. ‘Lubeck's gone.'

  He could see it as if he was there. As if it was now.

  She said quietly, 'You didn't want to leave her. did you?' She saw the question in the brightness of his blue eyes.

  She shrugged and winced; she had forgotten her injury. 'I was told. Everyone knew. They're very fond of their young captain, you know.'

  He rested his hand on one of the door-clips. There are no secrets in a ship, no matter what they say,' He faced her again. 'Yes, I wanted to stay with her. Now she's gone.' He thought of the burning convoy.

  They had had their revenge. He touched the girl's sound arm. Later, then.'

  He opened the heavy door and stepped out into the damp air. Liibeck had been sacrificed. He quickened his pace to the first ladder, oblivious of the watchful gun crews.

  It must not have been in vain.

  Chapter Eight

  Flotsam

  I he South African naval base of Simonstown was packed to capacity with warships of every class and size. It w7as like a melting-pot, a division between two kinds of war made more apparent by the vessels themselves and their livery. The darker hues of grey and garish dazzle paint of the Atlantic, at odds w7ith t he paler hulls of ships from the Indian Ocean and beyond.

  Powerful cruisers which had the capacity and range to cover the vast distances beyond the Cape of Good Hope seemed to make the greater contrast with a cluster of stubby Canadian corvettes which had fought their convoy all the way from New-foundland.

  Freighters and oilers, ammunition vessels and troopers. There was even a cleanly painted hospital ship.

  The largest cruiser in Simonstown on this particular afternoon lay alongside the jetty, her White Ensign hanging limply in the harsh sunlight.

  She was HMS Wiltshire, a big, 10,000-ton vessel, typical of a i lass which had been constructed in accordance with the Washington Treaty in the late twenties. She was heavily armed with eight, eight-inch guns in four turrets, with many smaller weapons to back up her authority. An elderly W'alrus flying-boat perched sedately on the catapult amidships, and her three tall funnels gave the ship a deceptively o
utdated appearance. She stood very high from the oily water, and because of her comparatively light armour plating her living quarters were both airy and spacious when compared with other men-of-war.

  Il was Sunday, and apart from duty watch and men under punishment Wiltshire was deserted. Officers and ratings alike took every opportunity to get ashore, to visit: Cape Town and enjoy the colourful sights, untouched by war.

  In his day cabin Captain James Cook Hemrose, Distinguished Service Order, Royal Navy, sat beneath a deckhead fan and regarded his pink gin while he wrondered if it was prudent to take another. On one chair lay his best cap which he had worn for Divisions and prayers that morning. Beside another stood his golf clubs, a reminder of the match he had had to cancel.

  He was a heavy man, and in his white shirt and Bermuda shorts looked ungainly. There were dark patches of sweat at each armpit despite the fans and he hated the oppressive heat.

  He was in his late forties, but service life had been hard on him. He looked older, much older, and what was worse, he felt it.

  The door opened and the ship's commander entered quietly.

  Hemrose gestured heavily to the sideboard. 'Have a pink Plymouth, Toby. Do you good.'

  The commander looked at the signals on the table and said, 'It's all true then, sir?'

  'Pour me one while you're at it. Not too much bitters.'

  The commander smiled. As if he did not know his ways. He had been with him over a year. The Atlantic, convoys round the Cape, Ceylon, India. It suited the commander. Routine, and often boring. But you could keep the Atlantic and Arctic runs. Let the glory boys do them if that was the war they wanted.

  'Yes, it's true.' Hemrose's eyes were distant. 'The jerries have put one of their big cruisers to sea. They think it might be Prinz Luitpold.' His eyes hardened into focus. 'I hope to God it is.'

  The commander sipped his gin. Just right. 'She won't get down here. Not at this stage of the war.' When Hemrose remained silent he added, 'I mean, it's just not on, sir.'

  Hemrose sighed. The commander, Toby Godson, was a well-meaning fool. He ran a smart ship, and that was enough. Until the signal had arrived anyway.

  Hemrose recalled his excitement, although he would die rather than display it. The war might indeed end soon, maybe even next year. Being captain of a big cruiser, a ship well known as any of her class, was some compensation. But he had seen himself, still in command when the war ended. Then what? Passed over for promotion again, or merely chucked on the beach like his father before him.

  They had some saying about it. 'God and the Navy we adore, when danger threatens, but not before!'

  He looked at the lengthy signal from the far-off Admiralty. As from today he was promoted to acting commodore, to take upon himself the command of a small squadron. To take all necessary stops to seek out and engage the German raider should she manage to penetrate the defences and come to the South Atlantic.

  It was unlikely, as Godson had said. But it had given him a well-needed boost. Acting commodore, a temporary appointment at the best of times. But it was his chance. The all-important step to flag-rank. It was not unknown in this war. Harwood, who had commanded the little squadron which had run the raider Graf Spee to earth, had made flag-rank immediately afterwards.

  It was something to think about.

  One of his new squadron was already here in Simonstown. She was the small Leander class cruiser Pallas of the Royal New Zealand Navy. She looked like a destroyer compared with the Wiltshire, but her captain and her ship's company were well trained, and had been together since she had commissioned.

  He heaved himself up and walked to one of the scuttles, one which faced away from the glare.

  He thought vaguely of his home in Hampshire. His w'ife Beryl would be pleased when she heard. There were too many naval officers' wives who lived in the county whose husbands seemed to have been promoted ahead of him.

  Acting commodore. He nodded. It sounded good. Old world; he liked that. He was distantly related to Captain James Cook and was proud of it, although it did not seem to have helped him over the years.

  The commander asked carefully, I'd forgotten, sir. You crossed swords with Prinz Luitpold before. North Cape, wasn't it?'

  I don't forget.' He stared through the scuttle. Two sailors in a dinghy were calling up to some black girls on the jetty. A bit of black velvet, as his father would have said.

  The commander ignored the warning signs. 'They say that Rear-Admiral Leitner's in command.'

  Hemrose glowered. 'I don't give a bloody damn about him. Her captain's the man - Hechler. He was in command at North Cape, when -'

  The commander said, She's a miniature battle-cruiser, sir. Makes our armour plate look like cardboard.'

  Hemrose ignored him. 'Came out of the snow like a cliff. It wras gun-for-gun.' He looked around the pleasant cabin, remembering it as it had been. 'This place was riddled, like a bloody pepper pot.'

  The commander had lost his way. 'She made off anyway, sir.'

  'Aye, she did that. Just as well. It was a right cock-up, I can tell you.' He saw the sailors paddling away. They had probably seen him looking at them. 'I hope it is Hechler in command. I'll get him this time.' He gave a rueful grin. 'Now he's like I was at North Cape.'

  'How so, sir?'

  Hemrose laughed out loud. 'He's got his fucking admiral breathing down his neck, that's why!'

  The commander downed his gin. He was used to the captain's coarse speech and blunt manner. Perhaps his temporary promotion would mellow him. But it could not last. The fleet would catch the German raider before they got a look-in.

  Hemrose rubbed his hands. 'Recall all the senior officers. I want 'em aboard by the dog watches.' He eyed his golf clubs. 'See how they like it.'

  The commander nodded. I see

  'You don't, Toby.' He became grave. 'I meant what I said. For the first time in my life their bloody lordships have given me a free hand, and by God I intend to use it.' He clapped him on the shoulder. 'Make a signal to Pallas. Captain repair on board.'

  Godson said unhappily, 'He's playing cricket with the South Africans, sir.'

  Hemrose beamed. 'Good. I want us out of harbour by this time tomorrow and I'll need you to form your own team to monitor all despatches and signals. Every damn thing. He slammed his fist into his palm. 'So get that Kiwi aboard, chop, chop'' He bustled to the sideboard and groped for some ice, but it had all melted. He slopped another large gin into his glass.

  'Liibeck's gone to the bottom anyway. That's one less. Scuttled herself when our lot were almost up to her.' He frowned . I wonder if Hechler knows?' He turned. 'Somehow' I doubt it.'

  But he was alone.

  Kapitan zur See Dieter Hechler closed the conning-tower's steel door and pushed through the fireproof curtain.

  Outside it was dusk, but in here it was like night, with only the chart-table lights and automatic pilot casting any glow on the thick armour plate.

  Hechler could sense the tension as well as the controlled excite-merit. Gudegast was leaning on the vibrating table, his face in shadow, only his beard holding the light. His team stood around him, boys most of them, in various attitudes of attention as Hechler joined them.

  Hchler looked at the chart, the neat calculations and pencilled fixes. Then at the plot-table which told him all the rest. Course, ,md speed, time and distance, variations, fed in by a dozen repeaters from radar, gyro and log.

  'We're through.'

  Gudegast nodded. Then he pointed his dividers to the chart where the course had crossed the Iceland-Faeroe Rise, where the seabed rose inexplicably like a hump. To U-boats and blockade-i tinners alike it was known as the meat grinder. Not a good place lor a submarine to run deep to avoid a depth-charge attack, and no scope for a surface vessel to manoeuvre.

  And yet they had made it. This great ship had passed through I he 300-mile gap without opposition. Not a ship, not even a distant aircraft had been sighted.

  I.uck, a miracle, or a direct result
of von Hanke's decoy, it was impossible to tell.

  The curtain swirled aside again and Leitner strode in with his aide behind him.

  He stared unwinking at the chart and said, 'We did it. As planned.'

  He looked at the darkened figures round him. Two days since the convoy, and now we are here!' He slapped the chart with unusual lervour. ‘The Atlantic, gentlemen! They said it could not be done.!'

  Some of the men were shaking hands and grinning at each other; only Gudegast remained unmoved and grim-faced.

  He said, 1 should like to alter course in fifteen minutes, sir

  Hechler nodded. 1 shall come up.

  A seaman called, 'From the bridge, sir.' He held out the telephone.

  Hechler shook himself. Fatigue or anxiety, which was it? He had not heard it ring.

  It was Froebe, who was in charge of the watch.

  'Radar has reported a faint echo at Red one-oh, sir. About five miles.'

  That was close. Too close. Hechler calmed himself. 'What is it, man?'

  He could picture Froebe shrugging his gaunt shoulders. 'Very small, sir, barely registers.' Someone shouted in the background. 'It will be dark very soon;'

  Hechler said, 'Alter course to intercept.' He felt Gudegast brush past him to adjust the chart.

  Leitner muttered, 'Something small, eh? God damn them, it might have been a submarine's conning-tower. At five miles anything might happen!' Another flaw. The unseen observer.

  Froebe spoke again, relieved. 'We've identified it, sir. It's a boat.'

  Hechler hurried from the conning tower, not caring if Leitner was in agreement or not.

  On the main bridge it was quite cold, and the clouds had thickened considerably.

  He raised his glasses and felt the deck tilt very slightly as the helm went over.

  Then he saw it and felt his taut muscles relax. There would be no attack from this lonely boat. It was a common enough sight on the Atlantic, but new to most of his company, he thought.

  Theil had arrived on the bridge, panting hard as he snatched some binoculars from a messenger.

  He said, A boat full of corpses.' He sounded angry, as if the drifting boat had wronged him in some way.