With Fremantle steaming in a protective circle, Blake had stopped his ship in the great oil slick and the too-familiar work of clearing up the mess had begun. The black, choking survivors had mostly been their own kind, crewmen from the Bikanir, the first reported victim to fall to the raider’s guns. Except that she was not the first after all. A Dutch freighter called the Evertsen, given up as a storm loss some weeks earlier, had also been captured and then sunk. Some of her people were dragged gasping and groaning up Andromeda’s side or into the boats which moved through the mass of bobbing remnants like undertakers’ men.
There was a tap at the door and Fairfax stepped into the cabin.
‘The last of the wounded have been taken ashore, sir. Captain Farleigh’s marines have the Germans under guard, the uninjured ones, that is.’
Blake nodded. With the ship swaying gently at anchor, the inviting coastline of Port Elizabeth lying abeam, it was hard to hold the recent events in perspective.
He knew that the same sense of bewilderment was effecting most of his ship’s company. The seasoned, battle-hardened ones would be taking it philosophically. Trust the top-brass to foul it up. What was the point of cracking an egg with a sledge-hammer, especially as some of their own blokes had bought it in the process? Others, especially the new hands, might see it as a kind of victory anyway. She was a German ship, a supply vessel for the raider, and they and not Fremantle had put her down.
There had been a report of another ship in difficulties to the eastward, but too far for the raider to have reached in the time available. But Stagg had made a brief signal instructing Andromeda to take the survivors and the few German prisoners to Port Elizabeth where they would await escort and interrogation by the proper authorities.
Only one German officer, a lieutenant, had survived the bombardment, and he, needless to say, had divulged little when Blake had questioned him. His ship, the Bremse, had been a supply vessel but had been about to try and penetrate the blockade and get back to Germany or Occupied France.
Any further information had gone to the bottom with the ship’s confidential books and codes when the German captain had first sighted the Fremantle.
The raider had kept all his officer prisoners with him, but the boatswain of the Dutch Evertsen had been able to supply some valuable information. He spoke German well and had heard his guards discussing their chances of getting home again.
The man who commanded the raider was Kurt Rietz, so Stagg had been right about that. But at no time had he heard them speak of the Australian cruiser Devonport, which was strange, as she must surely have been quite a victory for the Germans.
Blake stood up. ‘I’d better come on deck. Have the awnings and booms rigged and all boats lowered.’
Even as he said it he thought of the unreality which surrounded them. Lying at anchor, so that the wounded and shocked survivors had to be ferried ashore, and likewise any replacement stores and fresh water had to do the same trip. Security or red tape, Blake did not know.
On the quarterdeck it was oppressively hot, the shore shimmering in a haze like an unfocused gunsight.
The Germans, in borrowed clothing or wrapped in towels, stood like beaten animals, dull eyes fixed on the shore, while they waited to be taken to a prison camp.
Blake nodded to the marine guard and glanced along the strained faces. Mostly older men, ex-merchant sailors, others too old for active service in destroyers or U-boats.
Fairfax said quietly, ‘They don’t look much, sir.’
Blake had seen plenty of German prisoners and felt the usual uneasiness. It was better to keep the war impersonal, the enemy at a distance. Brought face to face they were too familiar.
He said, ‘The intelligence people will get nothing out of them. They’ll know nothing. They carried the supplies, kept out of trouble, and that’s all. I’ll lay odds there’s another supply ship already out here or on the way right now.’
A German petty officer barked, ‘Besatzung stillgestanden!’ and the dismal collection of survivors shuffled to attention. The man saluted Blake, his eyes feverishly bright as he stared at a point above Blake’s shoulder.
Captain Farleigh stepped smartly forward. ‘Boat’s alongside, sir.’ He pointed at the prisoners. ‘For them.’
‘Very well.’
Blake turned away and looked along the length of his command. Men were busy swaying out the booms and the aircraft’s crane was lowering the power boats alongside. Blake thought of Masters’ return in the Seafox. That he had survived was a miracle, but the seaplane stood demurely on the catapult with its attendant mechanics as proof of his skill.
Blake recalled with stark clarity the pilot’s bitterness and anger as he had clambered up to the bridge.
‘What the hell are we? Bloody butchers? That was no raider. One popgun and a couple of m.g.s! Christ Almighty, Stagg must be raving mad!’
When he entered the bridge Masters had been outwardly calm again, but his words lingered in Blake’s mind. Stagg had over-reacted, had seen only what he had wanted to see. The grim fact remained, however, that Andromeda’s guns had made the kill.
Blake ran his glance over the bridge. It looked remote from the quarterdeck, and yet he could see himself up there still. He knew what was partly wrong with himself. He was too protective about his ship, her name. Men died in war, it was a simple fact. With luck you came through. Usually more were killed because of stupid orders and impossible missions than by the enemy’s skill. On either side.
But Andromeda meant something. She had survived so much, too much to be wasted on a stupid blunder. Think of it how you liked, Stagg had been too hasty. He had known Andromeda was on her way, and when the weather had finally improved he would have been able to use his two aircraft to seek out the Bremse whether Blake had made contact or not.
The fact that Fairfax had carefully avoided the subject of Stagg’s strategy was almost worse. Like adding ‘I told you so’ to all the other doubts and anxieties.
He tried to relax, muscle by muscle, the sweat running down his spine like hot rain.
He was going round the bend. And why not? It happened to others.
Lieutenant Friar, the new torpedo officer, saluted and reported, ‘Launch approaching, sir.’ He was OOD but kept his eyes averted from Blake’s, like the German petty officer, like most of them since the Bremse had exploded.
The approaching launch swept round in an impressive arc towards the lowered accommodation ladder, her bowman ready with his boat-hook, as smart as if he was at a peacetime review.
The heavier boat containing the German prisoners chugged past, the dull-eyed survivors staring at the glittering launch without recognition or interest.
Blake sighed. God knows, he thought, they’ve made enough misery in the world, brought on a war that seems unending, and yet they deserved some pity. As far as everyone else was concerned, except possibly for their close relatives, they had already been written off. Numbers, things to be shunted from camp to camp, fed and guarded, and that was all.
Lieutenant Friar lowered his telescope. ‘There’s a captain aboard, sir.’
Fairfax snapped, ‘Man the side there!’
Marines moved into position, the OOD and quartermaster stepped smartly to the head of the ladder.
Blake straightened his cap, tradition took over. It was useful at times like these.
The boatswains’ calls twittered in salute, and then, with his hand to the peak of his cap, Captain Quintin stepped on to the brass plate on Andromeda’s quarterdeck.
He shook hands with Blake and nodded to Fairfax.
‘I flew,’ he said simply.
Several heads turned as the Wren officer called Claire Grenfell followed him on to the deck, her eyes and expression completely masked by dark sun-glasses.
Quintin ran one finger round his collar. ‘What about a drink?’ He waited for the girl to join him and added, ‘Now what’s this about you blowing up Germans? I want it all. Forget the report you’ve got ready
for our superiors. I want the professional view.’ He fell in step beside Blake. ‘Whether it hurts or not.’
On the evening of the same day that the Andromeda anchored off Port Elizabeth, the German raider, Salamander, lay hove to some one hundred and eighty miles south-west of Madagascar. Although the Indian Ocean was restless with a deep, unending swell, the raider appeared to be motionless, standing against the sunset like an iron fortress.
Also stopped, and less than a cable away, the Swedish merchantman, Patricia, looked clean and remote by comparison.
Between the two vessels a motor launch plunged and bucked across the water towards her parent ship, empty but for some seamen and the Swedish captain.
High on the raider’s square, business-like bridge her commanding officer, Kurt Rietz, studied the returning launch through his powerful Zeiss binoculars. It had been easy, almost too easy, he thought as he focused his glasses on the Swedish master. But there had been a rain squall, unusual for the time of year, which had deluged across the blue water, shutting off the horizon like a steel fence. When it had passed on just as swiftly, leaving the upper deck and life-boats steaming in the sunshine as if about to burst into flames, the Swede had been there. To turn away would have roused suspicion. The German’s mouth lifted in a wry smile. Even neutrals raised hue and cry once they were at a safe distance.
Rietz turned on his heel and re-entered the wheelhouse. Everything except the bridge equipment, compass and electrical gear looked worn and uncared for. Even the brass plate above the chartroom door which stated that the Salamander of eight thousand tons, built originally for general cargo and passengers on the South America run, and launched in 1936 at Hamburg, was green with salt.
Rietz was well aware of his ship’s shabby appearance and he disliked it. But a raider was like no other sea creature. She had to live from her wits and her ability to survive against odds. To succeed she must use only what was necessary. Paint by the drumload to change her appearance and alter her identity. Like now, with the name John A. Williams painted in great white letters on her hull below the Stars and Stripes of America. Wood and canvas, wires and cordage, so that a false funnel could be hoisted to be a twin with her single one. Rietz had expected the false funnel to fall. It had been a hasty piece of work, and some new system would have to be introduced. He would pass the word around his command, as he always did. A bottle of schnapps or captured Scotch for the best idea.
It usually worked and saved hours of fruitless discussion. In a ship of this size there were plenty of original ideas lying dormant amongst her three hundred and fifty officers and seamen.
Rietz walked to the bridge screen to see if the launch was alongside. He hated hanging about. It was far too risky. He had been successful because of his ingenuity and his persistence, and, although he would dismiss it, his courage most of all. But he never took risks.
Looking down from his high perch there was little to show the raider’s power. Her eight big five-point-nine guns were either concealed behind steel shutters cut in her hull or beneath false deck-houses, as were her two new Arado seaplanes and their catapult. Torpedo tubes, mines and six other cannon completed her armament, and her maximum speed of eighteen knots made her hard to catch.
Storch, his first lieutenant, strode into the bridge and saluted smartly.
‘The prisoner is aboard, sir!’
Rietz was staring at the motionless ship. He never got used to it. A fight he understood, pitting his wits against the enemy he sometimes enjoyed.
He said, ‘Bring him.’
Rietz was forty years old but appeared younger. He was slightly built with dark, glossy hair and brown eyes. He looked more French than German, a composed, thoughtful man with little to show of the hunter, the corsair.
The Swedish captain stepped into the wheelhouse and opened his mouth to protest.
Rietz held up one hand. ‘Please, Kapitän. We are wasting time. My boarding party signalled to me what you are carrying, where from and where bound. Coal from the north of England, on passage for Port Said, yes?’
Even as he said it Rietz could sense the man’s despair. All those hundreds of miles. In or out of convoy, hazardous enough at the best of times. Then taking the long route around the Cape rather than risk being stopped at Gibraltar or sunk in convoy through the Mediterranean. So near and yet so far. It was over. The Patricia’s cargo of coal would have been used by the Tommies.
The Swedish captain said huskily, ‘I am a neutral. Sink her and I lose my livelihood.’
Rietz shrugged and pointed down at his own ship. ‘This is my livelihood, Kapitän.’
A lookout called, ‘The rest of the prisoners are being brought across, sir!’
Rietz looked at Storch. ‘Make them comfortable. We will release them later. But now. . . .’ He turned to the Swedish officer. ‘We cannot risk your keeping silent.’
Storch said, ‘Torpedo, sir?’
Rietz smiled gently. ‘I have to tell you too often, Rudi. Waste nothing. Signal the boarding party to set charges. The coal will do the rest.’
A petty officer touched the Swede’s arm, impatient to get it over with, but Rietz shook his head.
‘Stay if you wish, Kapitän.’ To Storch he murmured, ‘No word from Bremse. The British cruiser must have caught her.’
Storch nodded. He was just twenty-six, and was still very conscious of his scarred face and the black glove which covered a disfigured left hand. He had been the navigating officer of a destroyer in the Baltic which had been attacked by Russian dive-bombers. Badly injured and scarred though he was, he was still a first class navigator and had been sent as such to the Salamander. He had felt it badly, like some sort of stigma, a temporary appointment for an expendable officer and ship.
Rietz had changed all that, and when the senior lieutenant had been sent back to Germany in command of a captured whaling ship, Storch had been promoted to his position. He no longer felt anything but pride in the ship and his work, and he would have died willingly for his commander.
Half an hour later, as froth mounted once more from the raider’s screws, the abandoned Patricia lifted slightly, as if she was shuddering. The demolition charges barely made more than an echo against the raider’s bilges, but as she gathered way, with the sunset just able to paint her poop and frothing wake in bronze, the victim leaned over and began to settle down. When the coal shifted to crash through the protective barriers and machinery broke loose in the hull, her end came more quickly.
The Swedish captain watched in silence. If he had not depended on the neutrality of his flag and he had urged his radio officer to wireless their position, the end would have been the same. He turned wretchedly and saw the German captain lighting a cigar. But at least he would have had the satisfaction of helping to finish the raider’s career, he thought.
Storch heard the door slam as the latest captive was escorted below
‘What would you have done in his place, sir?’
Rietz blew out a stream of smoke. It was one of his last. Perhaps they would have brought some from the Swedish ship.
He replied, ‘Ask me again. When it happens, eh?’ He walked to the chartroom. ‘Now we must move ourselves.’
He switched on the deckhead lights above the specially built plot and chart tables. Opposite, pinned to the bulkhead, was the front page of a Sydney newspaper.
Captain Richard Blake, vc, arrives in Aussie! Hero of the Andromeda a welcome visitor!
Rietz smiled grimly. So much for security.
The German secret agent who had put the newspaper in with the last pack of despatches had marked one line in pencil. Why is he here? What is his mission?
Aloud Rietz said, ‘I expect we knew that before he did!’
He peered at Blake’s picture and added, ‘At least we shall recognize him when we meet!’ He bent over the chart and added curtly, ‘To work. We will assume the Patricia’s appearance tonight. Put both watches to painting and remarking the hull.’ He took down the bulky r
ecognition manual. ‘Swedish flag, so I hope we’ve plenty of yellow paint.’
Night closed in around the darkened ship, while far astern there was nothing left to betray that the raider or her victim had ever existed.
Captain Jack Quintin dabbed his mouth with a napkin and nodded approvingly to Moon.
To Blake he said, ‘Damn good lunch.’ He glanced around the cabin. ‘You could have given me baked beans and I’d not have complained. Just to be aboard a ship again.’ He shook his head. ‘But I’m interrupting. You were saying?’
Blake waited for Moon to remove his plate. He had barely noticed what he had been eating nor that he had been speaking with hardly a break since Quintin and his Wren had stepped aboard.
She was sitting at the opposite end of the table, her hair shining in the sunlight from an open scuttle, so that her expression was in shadow. She had said very little, and then mostly to her boss, to clarify some point or other, which she immediately noted on a pad which had lain beside her throughout the meal.
It had been more like an interrogation than a casual encounter, Blake thought. Perhaps that was how they did things. He knew little about intelligence work, other than the people in the field. The hard men, the cloak-and-dagger brigade whom he had dropped on enemy coastlines to recover weeks later, tired, ragged but grimly pleased with themselves.
Blake said, ‘That’s about it, sir. I spoke with the prisoners and the survivors from the Bikanir and the Evertsen. I’ve a team aboard who plot the findings on a special chart and vet all the W/T signals we can pick up.’ He shrugged. ‘As for the Bremse, well, we may never know about her. She was probably going to another rendezvous even without knowing it until she got her secret signal with the co-ordinates of the next grid position.’
The girl said suddenly, ‘If the Bremse had been less heavily attacked. . . .’
Blake met her gaze calmly. ‘I know. I acted on the assumption she was the raider. I was wrong.’
A Ship Must Die (1981) Page 8
