by Antony Trew
At six o’clock the Newt, telephoning Widmark from a public booth at the docks, said he had counted nine men getting into the 5.30 p.m. launch when it went alongside the Hagenfels to take liberty men ashore.
At about the same time Rohrbach and Johan le Roux took a taxi from the Cardoso to the boat harbour; with them went their bathing bags and fishing gear. Domingos Parao handed over the boat and bait, expressed regret that they had disregarded his advice to take ladies with them, and wished them good fishing. As usual, and notwithstanding his protestations, they paid him in advance. They left the harbour and set course down river; to port the Aterro do Machaquene, the native fish dock, and Ponta Vermelha passed in quick succession. The evening wind had begun to come in from the east, there was a light lop on the water, the sky was overcast, and there was the feel of rain in the air.
When Ponta Vermelha was abeam they turned to the southeast and by six-thirty they were off the reef at Ponta Maone. Johan stopped the engine and they anchored, put the baited lines over the side, and although they had no great desire to catch fish that evening it so happened they caught many. It began to rain and at seven o’clock when it was dark they weighed anchor, started the engine and steered in on the light at Esparcelado; at seven-fifteen it was abeam and they made a wide alteration of course which put number nine buoy ahead. When they reached it they switched on navigation lights and ran in for the fish dock. It was raining, visibility was poor, and they had some difficulty in finding the entrance. Once inside, Rohrbach ran the boat gently up into the shallow waters of the beach until the bows grounded. There were a few fishing boats in the harbour, but no signs of life in the darkness other than the flicker of two oil lanterns and the murmur of African voices around a fire under the trees. At 7.30 p.m. three flashes of blue light showed up in the darkness to their left. Johan raised his torch and gave three flashes in reply. There was the scuffle of feet ahead of them: Johan called “Tally-Ho” and they heard Widmark’s reply “Break out.” Soon afterwards, he, McFadden, Hans le Roux and Mike Kent came out of the darkness, dropped their bathing bags into the boat and climbed aboard.
There were last minute handshakes, whispered “Good lucks!” Johan said: “Sorry you types weren’t invited to the party,” and he and Rohrbach went off to where the taxi was waiting. Complaining that the fishing was poor, they asked the driver to take them to the Cardoso. There they paid him off, made their way through a side entrance to their rooms where they washed and changed, strapped on their shoulder-holsters, put their coats on over them, and slipped the spare ammunition into their pockets.
“How do I look?” said Rohrbach, turning round self-consciously. “See anything?”
Johan looked at him with a critical eye: much depended on what he saw. “Eerste klas—first-class, can’t see a sausage.”
“I feel such a bloody fool, toting this,” complained Rohrbach. “Too dramatic!”
“I don’t,” Johan patted his holster. “Makes me feel good. Only wish I had my cosh.”
Rohrbach looked at Johan’s big hands. “Why the hell you want a cosh when nature gave you clubs like that, beats me.”
For a few minutes they practised drawing the automatics—sitting down, standing up, and on the move. In the end they finished up on the floor helpless with laughter. “Talk about cowboys and crooks!” croaked Johan. “What a couple of clots we must look.”
They learnt a valuable lesson: to bring the right hand down from the chin so that it fell easily on to the butt of the pistol; they learnt, too, not to draw too fast or hitches occurred.
Taking their raincoats, they went down to the lounge and joined Mariotta and Cleo, took a taxi and arrived at the boat harbour just after 8.30 p.m. The launch was waiting. The lights on the quay shone through a curtain of rain into the cabin where the Newt was sitting with two women. Since Rohrbach and Johan weren’t supposed to know him, and as none of them knew Di Brett, there was a moment of embarrassment when they got into the launch.
Then Mariotta and Cleo recognised Hester Smit, greeted her warmly and introduced her to David and Johan: that done Hester introduced them all to “Mr. James Newton and Mrs. Brett.” “We introduced ourselves while we were waiting,” she explained.
“Sorry we’re late,” said Rohrbach.
“It’s nothing. We were early.”
“Pity it’s raining.” The Newt looked at the cabin windows streaming with rain. “But it won’t worry us once we’re on board.”
The African coxswain told the bowman to shove off, the engine started and the launch went up river past the ships at the Gorjao Quay, the light clusters on the cranes looking like blurred moons in the rain. As they made for the anchorage below Ponta Chaluquene, they saw the lights of ships lying in the stream but could not see their hulls.
The women chatted inconsequentially, while the men were silent as men are when they’ve just met. All very convincing, thought Di Brett. But she did not know that the real reason for their silence was their awareness that the operation had started, that they were committed from now on to action.
Presently the engine slowed and the African coxswain answered a hail from the night, disembodied and peremptory. The launch shuddered as the engine went astern, there was a bump and the next moment a sailor in oilskins was helping them on to the foot of the gangway and they were climbing the wet steps which reflected the light from above.
Rohrbach reached the top and stepped out of the rain into the shelter of a covered deck. An officer with two stripes saluted him. “Good evening, sir.” The accent was unmistakably German.
“Guten abend!” replied Rohrbach.
They were on board the Hagenfels.
As the launch left the boat harbour, two dark shapes stepped from behind a pile of sleepers.
“Well,” said von Falkenhausen, “that’s that. Three flies in the parlour.”
“I envy you,” said Herr Stauch. “Can’t I go off to the ship with you, Herr Baron?”
In the light of a dock lamp the Freiherr looked at the fat man’s stomach, somehow more prominent under the wet raincoat. “No,” he said evenly. “You are too valuable ashore, Stauch.”
As Rohrbach and Johan disappeared into the night, Widmark put the engine astern and backed the boat out from the fish dock until they were clear of the breakwater; then with navigation lights burning they turned and headed across the river to where the Esparcelado Light glowed every second through the rain. The wind was blustering and when they cleared Ponta Vermelha the boat began to feel the sea and speed was eased. Widmark looked at the luminous hands of his watch—it was 1940—7.40 p.m.; they had to be in position off the Hagenfels at 2130, so they had nearly two hours in hand. To port he saw the flashing green light of number nine buoy and, altering course to the north-east, he headed the boat up the dredged channel, the buoy ahead a winking pinpoint of red light.
Under their coats they wore their shoulder-holsters and automatics; the spare ammunition clips, torches and other small items were in their pockets.
The fishing boat was decked-in forward where there was a small store for stowing the anchor, ropes, fenders and other gear. Crouching, a man could just get into it. The sternsheets were open to the weather, but the engine round which they sat was protected by a wooden and canvas cover.
The wind and sea were on the starboard bow and at times spray sluiced back over them, but the night and the water were warm and the discomfort slight.
Fortunately all of them except Mike Kent had served in small ships, or seasickness might have been embarrassing. As it was, he was the only sufferer. He sat weak and retching, miserably ashamed, as the boat butted into short seas, passing first number eight buoy and then number seven. A few minutes later, at 2000, Widmark ordered the dousing of the navigation lights. After consulting the chart in the fo’c’sle, he brought the boat’s head round to the south for the run in to Ponta Maone. This put the wind and sea on the port-quarter and the motion became easier; Hans gave the engine full throttle and the boat worked up to its maximum s
peed of eight knots. The darkness was black and complete, but in the west a few stars blinked through the overcast and there seemed less rain. When the Esparcelado Light bore due west they altered course, heading back into the Espirito Santo on the Catembe side. At 2027 they were abeam of the light on the new course and they slowed down. The engine note dropped and sounds from the shore came down to them in the wind; the distant clamour of traffic and the ringing of church bells.
They made their way slowly down harbour, the lights of the ships at anchor misty balls of yellow, the black bulk of hulls shutting out the city’s lights. Near the pier at Catembe, they stopped the engine.
Widmark stood up in the sternsheets. “Righto, chaps. Get busy. Blacken your hands and faces, and lay out the gear.” He turned to Mike Kent. “You okay now, Mike.”
“Much better, sir,” he whispered. The retching had stopped, but he still felt weak and was unhappy about the prospect of climbing a rope ladder up a steel side in the dark.
They took it in turns to go into the fo’c’sle where, with the aid of torches and a small mirror, they dried their hands and faces and blackened them with stove-polish, put on the rope-soled shoes and the belts with the sheath-knives. While this was going on the others laid out the hook rope and scaling ladder, checked that the hammer, punch and hack-saw were in one bathing bag, and that the charts and sailing directions were in another.
Widmark said: “I’ve stuck a small White Ensign into the bag with the charts.”
They found this strangely reassuring, for they were pleased about the White Ensign. That was a nice touch he’d kept to himself.
Within twenty minutes everything was ready.
“We must be looking a fine lot of thugs,” said Andrew McFadden.
Hans laughed. “Glad my girl friend’s not around or I’d have had it.”
“That’ll do,” said Widmark. “Pipe down! Our job’s to listen. All set?”
There were answering “okays.” The engine started and the boat moved slowly upstream, the throttle well back.
It was 2110.
They had about a mile to go and twenty minutes in hand.
It began to rain again as Ponta Chaluquene came abeam to port. Ahead of them lay the Gerusalemme, the German ships and the sailing ship. The tide was ebbing and the ships faced up river, their port sides towards the fishing boat as it made its way slowly against the tide. The relative positions of the ships as he’d last seen them were fixed in Widmark’s mind. Rohrbach had told him where the Clan McPhilly had anchored the evening before, and it was for her he was now looking. Presently he saw a light-cluster on the fo’c’sle of a ship ahead and to starboard of them. McRobert had been as good as his word.
They came level with the Clan McPhilly’s fo’c’sle, and men could be seen at the windlass where there was the sound of hammering. The fishing boat drew slowly ahead. Widmark knew that the next ship in the line was the Hagenfels, and the blur of her lights was already visible through the rain; beyond her those of the Dortmund and Aller shone weakly. Widmark altered course to port to open the distance from the German ship, and the fishing boat went closer inshore. With the tide against them, they barely made headway and he ordered more throttle. They were about four hundred yards from the Hagenfels and downwind from her, so there was no danger of being heard. When they’d drawn well ahead they reduced speed and made a wide turn to starboard until the bows of the fishing boat faced down river and the Hagenfels lay ahead. They could now see both sides of the German ship. To starboard the foot of the gangway was hoisted clear of the water.
Widmark watched her lights, judging the distance as best he could. Then in a low voice he called: “Stand by to anchor!”
The engine stopped and they drifted down with the tide towards the Hagenfels until, when the distance had closed to about a hundred and fifty yards, he ordered: “Let go!”
The small anchor was lowered into the water so that there should be no splash, and the anchor rope was paid out until it held and the boat swung to the tide.
It was 2133.
Seventeen minutes to go.
On board the Hagenfels the party in the Captain’s cabin had got off to a difficult start. It would have been bad enough under normal circumstances with so many strangers, but circumstances weren’t normal and everybody in the cabin knew it except Mariotta Pereira and Cleo Melanides.
The Captain’s day-cabin was a large one, well furnished, and off it to port were his sleeping-cabin, bathroom and pantry. There were two separate entrances to the day-cabin, but they both led on to the same alleyway; one directly into the cabin and the other via the pantry. Müller, the steward, was on duty and he came out of the pantry from time to time with plates of snacks, sausages, cakes and fruit, which he put on a table already well equipped with drinks. Immediately inside the main door on the starboard side there was a leather settee and on this Hester Smit sat between Günther Moewe and Johan. On the settee opposite were Mariotta, the Newt and Rohrbach. Against the foremost bulkhead there was a mahogany desk with book-cases on either side, and in the corner a fireplace with an electric fire, a carved mantelpiece above it. Di Brett was in the desk chair, turned to face the centre of the cabin, to her right Kuhn, to her left Lindemann.
Cleo Melanides was alone in an arm-chair opposite Lindemann.
The introductions had been performed with much bowing and heel clicking. Now they were talking, but the conversation was stilted and the party seemed bogged down, uncertain, the guests ill at ease.
Moewe and Kuhn got up from time to time to pour drinks and go round with the snacks.
The room was clouded with cigarette smoke, and though the large insect-screened portholes were open and there were two fans and a punkah-louvre at work, it was hot. The main door to the cabin was open, but inside it a light screen-door kept out mosquitoes.
Günther Moewe had gone the rounds with a plate of sandwiches, finishing up next to Rohrbach. “So, Herr Rohrbach,” he said in German. “You are a Bavarian?”
“Yes. From Munich, Herr Moewe.”
“When did you last see Bavaria?” Moewe watched him intently, the morose eyes expressionless,
David Rohrbach half smiled, shaking his head. “Some things one cannot mention before strangers, Herr Moewe.” He nodded in the direction of the Newt, who was listening to their conversation,
“Quite, Herr Rohrbach. One cannot be too careful, though I doubt if he speaks German.” As he said it, Moewe’s mouth curled with contempt; there was no doubt in his mind, now that he had seen him, that this fellow Rohrbach was a Semite. No wonder he was a traitor to the Fatherland.
“As you say, Herr Moewe, one cannot be too careful. Maybe he does speak German. Who is he?”
Günther Moewe resented having to continue this game but he had no option. “An Englishman who lives in Portugal, I understand.”
Rohrbach’s eyebrows went up and he turned to look at the Newt. “An Englishman! I am surprised you have him on board a German ship!”
“In time of war one does strange things, Herr Rohrbach. We would even invite pigs to our ship, if necessary.”
Rohrbach drew deeply on his cheroot before blowing a cloud of smoke into the second officer’s face. “Quite, Herr Moewe.” He’d blown the smoke into the man’s face to get rid of him; he didn’t like him standing at his side, looking down on him—the automatic and shoulder-holster felt unpleasantly conspicuous. The smoke trick worked and, disgusted, Moewe went over and sat next to Hester Smit who was carrying on a lively conversation in Afrikaans with Johan, her eyes shining—details which the German noted with irritation.
There was a lull in the conversation. Lindemann chose it to lean across Di Brett and say to Kuhn, quietly but in a voice all could hear: “I saw you had the shore engineers on board this afternoon, Kuhn. Any progress?”
Kuhn shook his head. He looked careworn. “None, Herr Kapitän. They examined it in their workshops yesterday and to-day. They cannot repair it here and they have not the resources for local
manufacture.”
Lindemann frowned. “That is serious, Kuhn.”
“Are you having engine trouble, Kapitän Lindemann?” Rohrbach sensed a calamity,
Lindemann looked round the room, lowered his voice. “Unfortunately, yes. The main crankshaft has a fracture. Due to metal fatigue, Herr Kuhn tells me.”
Rohrbach’s stomach knotted with anxiety. This was shattering news. “Operation Break Out” could only end in disaster. There was about to be a fight for the Hagenfels—no way of stopping it now—but when they’d got control they wouldn’t be able to move her. It meant, at the least, internment in a Portuguese gaol for the rest of the war. With difficulty he fought down his rising panic. There was no way of getting word to Widmark. It was too late! Then the words used by Kuhn, still ringing in Rohrbach’s ears, soaked through to the inner recesses of his mind: They examined it in their workshops yesterday and to-day. A main crankshaft would take the best part of three days to dismantle and lift out of the engine-room and yet from the Gorjao Quay yesterday, he and Johan had seen the froth of disturbed water under Hagenfels’s stern as the engines were turned. She was a single-screw ship so somebody was lying, or he had not heard aright.
“Fortunate that you have plenty of time for repairs, Kapitän Lindemann,” he heard himself saying, and he tried to smile. “But how did you discover the trouble here? I mean, with the ship in harbour like this?”
Kuhn chipped in then. “Sometimes in harbour we turn the main engines to keep them in condition. When we last did this”—he looked thoughtful—“about a week ago, we found excessive vibration. We knew at once that something was wrong.”
“Is it a big job taking out the main crankshaft, Herr Kuhn?”
“A very big job. With the few men I have here and some help from the shore it took us four days.”
Rohrbach hoped that his face didn’t show his relief. He felt like jumping up and hugging the little chief engineer. But why had they troubled to tell such an elaborate lie? With this thought uppermost he followed Kuhn’s remark with: “How many men have you got on board, Kapitän?”
