Death on the Rhine

by Charles Whiting

  Antje, it turned out, had not been so respectable after all. Halfway through her second demitasse of weak China tea, accompanied by petit fours, he had felt a delightful little squeeze on his left knee. He looked down under the fine lace tablecloth to find her small, begloved hand working its way up his trouser leg until it came to the most sensitive spot of his anatomy.

  ‘Thereupon old bean,’ Dickie had explained, smiling fondly at the memory, ‘negotiations were under way. I feel a chap who rabbits on about filthy lucre in such situations is something of a cad. At all events, coins of the realm changed hands and we popped off to a delightful flat. There in her boudoir, we played the two-backed beast for an hour or so. Quite exhausted – yours truly. However, she said she enjoyed it.’ He looked down modestly at his well-manicured nails. ‘But no more. A chap should never kiss and tell, what.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Smith had agreed with a smile. ‘And you’d be the last chap to tell.’

  Now with Dickie Bird still half in a reverie of the delightful events of the afternoon, the Swordfish entered mid-stream of the great river, proceeding at a slow speed while the off-duty watch lolled in their civilian finery in the new deckchairs which Smith had bought in Dordrecht, something which had caused CPO Ferguson to have almost a fit. ‘Deckchairs!’ he had exploded when he had found out what Smith’s new purchase had been. ‘Thirty years in the Royal Navy and we now sail with deckchairs! I’ve never heard anything like it in all my born days!’ And with that he had marched off muttering angrily to himself.

  Now, however, the off-duty men sprawled in the brightly striped chairs, smoking their pipes, waving at little children playing along the banks, whistling at the girls riding along the towpath, their starched white petticoats flying to reveal the usual ample Dutch female legs, and generally acting, as Smith had hoped they would, like wealthy Englishmen out on a continental spree. As Ferguson observed grimly to himself, as he watched their antics, ‘Yon folk’ll be wanting bluidy tiffin served on a silver tray. Och, my poor Swordfish, I never minded we’d sink this bluidy low.’

  But while Ferguson raged, the crew enjoyed themselves. Smith, on the bridge, worried. Moving up and down the river he was able to spot more and more barges and other, smaller craft carrying the flag of the German Republic. While he knew that most of the craft would be legitimate, going about their business of transporting goods and wares to and from the Belgian and Dutch ports, some might not be. He remembered when barges were used, during the war, by both sides to convey spies and agents via neutral Holland to the fighting front in Belgium. He wouldn’t put it past the Germans to have some of those seemingly innocent bargees working for their intelligence, reporting back to their headquarters anything suspicious that caught their attention.

  He hoped that their roundabout approach to the waterway network and the altered appearance of the Swordfish, transformed from a motor torpedo-boat to a pleasure craft, might have fooled this von Horn chap and his agents, but he couldn’t be one hundred per cent certain.

  By late afternoon, with the sun sparkling off the water and with even Holland’s flat countryside looking charming, Smith started to relax; his worries faded. Indeed, he felt almost as if he were on a pleasure cruise. More than once, he picked up his binoculars to stare at one of the many windmills of the area or some old church steeple, as if he were really a bona fide tourist, interested in the locality.

  Now, as the sun started to sink over the horizon, the barges started to drift to the banks on either side, lying to at the many little riverside inns and fishing hotels. Here, they would gather to eat and drink their Genever over cards, slapping the table hard every time they won before turning in for the night.

  But, as there was still no sign of Arnhem on the left bank of the great river, Smith ordered that the Swordfish would continue to sail until the Dutch city was sighted. From there to Emmerich was a matter of twenty or so kilometres. At two in the morning they would set off, making maximum speed until shortly before the Dutch frontier met with the German frontier. There the motors would be turned off and the Swordfish would drift silently – hopefully – past the German customs and immigration posts. Once safely within the country, they would pick up speed. With a bit of luck they would reach the industrial Ruhr, an area now taken over by the French and Belgian occupation powers because the beaten Germans had slackened off their reparation payments to those countries, by dawn. From there their passage would be without danger until they reached Cologne a few hours later.

  At the same time, as Smith ordered the Swordfish to continue its passage down the darkening river, he also commanded that the deck lookouts should be doubled. As he told CPO Ferguson, ‘Chiefie, I’m taking no chances. I know the chaps need their rest.’

  ‘Rest!’ Ferguson snorted grumpily. ‘Yon layabouts in them fancy trews o’ theirn have done nothing else but rest all the bluidy day.’

  By six, the river was almost deserted. A few barges were chug-chugging from the direction of Germany, very low in the water, towing behind them other unmanned barges, their bow waves almost level with their stacked decks. ‘Reparations from the Ruhr,’ Dickie Bird commented, lowering his glasses, ‘they’re flying the French flag. Those Froggies are certainly playing merry hell with the Huns.’

  Smith grunted non-committally and stared to their rear. Behind them the river was almost deserted save for one lone barge which had been behind them for over an hour now. Its riding lights were on and he could just make a faint glimmer of yellow light on the bridge, but otherwise there was no sign of life on board. He shrugged. Perhaps the crew were down below eating their supper; it was about that time.

  Time passed leadenly. Now, slowly, they could see the lights of Arnhem looming up out of the darkness to the left and to their immediate front the huge iron-frame railway bridge which spanned the river at that point. But, if they could spot the street lights, they could see little movement. There were a few cars moving across the length of the waterfront and Smith guessed that like most Dutch towns and villages they had encountered so far, Arnhem had already settled down for the night. It was to the good. There’d be fewer prying eyes to see them tying up and with luck none at all to watch them depart in the middle of the night.

  Slowly and carefully, CPO Ferguson, at the wheel, manoeuvred the Swordfish into a berth. The engines stopped and the Swordfish came to a rest. The crew were dismissed, save for the lookouts, to eat and snatch a few hours’ sleep before they attempted to cross the German frontier, while Smith and Dickie Bird retired to the tiny wardroom for pink gins and sandwiches.

  Slowly, the fog began to come in, trailing across the great river like a damp grey cat, circling and enshrouding a few craft anchored there, surrounding each boat in a cocoon of its own. Sound was muted. Up river, there was a mournful hoot of a ship’s siren as some lone skipper attempted to continue despite the ever-thickening fog.

  Smith listened to the faint sound of the siren, as he sipped a tall pink gin and said, ‘All to the good, Dickie – the fog, I mean.’

  ‘Navigation’ll be harder.’

  ‘We’ll take our chance on that.’

  ‘Drifting down the Rhine without power and without navigation lights, old bean.’ Dickie shrugged. ‘Oh well, the trick is to live well – and make a handsome corpse, what?’

  Smith grinned. Good old Dickie, he told himself. Dickie was really a serious sort of a chap, but he always made things seem not quite so serious. What was he always quoting from Oscar Wilde? ‘Life is too serious to be taken seriously.’ ‘Maybe, Dickie. But we’re not going to make any handsome corpses this trip, if I have the way of it—’ He stopped short. ‘I say, what’s that?’ he exclaimed.

  ‘What’s what?’

  Smith didn’t answer. He craned his head to one side and listened intently. Then he said, with a note of urgency in his voice, ‘Listen to that. Whoever he is, he’s getting damned close in this peasouper.’

  Dickie listened, too, and snapped, ‘I say, Smithie, you’re right.’ He
could hear the throbbing noise of a ship’s engine quite clearly now and it was very close at hand. ‘Is the chappie lost – or drunk?’

  ‘I don’t know. But he’s getting too close for comfort. Come on, Dickie, let’s go and have a look-see.’

  They tumbled out of the wardroom, their pink gins forgotten now, and hurried onto the damp, dripping deck. The fog was very dense now. Visibility was down to about five to ten yards. They could just about see the river bank to which they were tied up. But if they couldn’t see the craft, they could hear it all right.

  ‘Sounds like one of those big Rhenish barges,’ Smith said, peering through the grey gloom, attempting to spot the craft’s navigation lights. In vain. There were none. Suddenly he was overcome by a sense of apprehension. ‘Dickie,’ he yelled, ‘Sound the siren. Toot sweet!’

  ‘Righto.’ Dickie doubled away, his usual bantering tone vanished. He, too, realised the seriousness of the situation. The unknown vessel was coming straight at them.

  Up on the bridge, Dickie pulled the klaxon cord hastily. The heavy, dripping silence was broken by the shrill wail of the horn. Once, twice, three times, Bird pulled the cord. Nothing happened. The unknown craft still kept on coming, heading on a collision course. It was then, when there was no response to the signal, and the puzzled crew started to pour on deck, that he yelled to CPO Ferguson, ‘Chiefie, there’s going to be trouble… Break out the small arms!’

  Five

  Now they waited tensely. Each man was armed and ready, all thoughts of sleep vanished. Together they peered through the rolling grey fog, desperate to catch the first glimpse of the approaching vessel before it was too late. For they had no power and no room to manoeuvre, tied up as they were at the jetty with their engines both silent.

  ‘There she is,’ Ginger cried suddenly, startling them all. ‘The bugger’s coming right at us!’

  Next to him, Billy Bennett tensed behind the Lewis gun which had been balanced on a stanchion, holding the heavy weapon in place by sheer muscle power. Automatically, he cocked the machine gun and turned it in the direction of the dark shape now looming out of the mist.

  ‘Christ,’ Dickie exclaimed, ‘it’s the same barge that was following us earlier on. I recognise the cut of her jib.’

  ‘But the skipper must be mad!’ Smith cried excitedly. ‘He must see us now!’

  ‘He has. Look there’s light in the bridge. This is deliberate. He’s going to crash into us.’

  Smith didn’t hesitate, though the thought of all the resulting diplomatic complications which might result from his action did flash through his mind. ‘Give her a burst across the bows. That might stop the silly devil.’

  ‘Ay, ay, sir,’ Billy Bennett sang out happily and slammed the heavy wooden butt into his big shoulder. He ripped back the trigger. White tracer spurted from the ugly snout of the Lewis gun. It sailed rapidly across the front of the huge bulk of the barge, while up on the bridge Dickie tugged yet again at the klaxon siren.

  Nothing happened. The barge came on. Now it was only a matter of yards away. In a moment it would smash into the wooden sides of the Swordfish and that would be that. Smith knew he had to do something – and do it fast. ‘Chiefie,’ he yelled above the clatter of the machine gun and the steady thud-thud of the barge’s engines, ‘Start up!’

  ‘But we’re—’ Ferguson broke off in mid-protest. He pressed the starter button. Nothing. A mere dull click. The barge was almost upon them now. The sweat pouring down his craggy face despite the cold, Ferguson pressed the starter again. The engines fired. He could have yelled with joy. The barge seemed to fill the whole sky now. He slammed both throttles forwards. He was going to need full power if he was going to get the Swordfish away from the quay and break the stout hawser which tied the craft to it. The boat surged forwards. At the stern the twin propellers thrashed the water a wild white. Still the hawser held. At the controls, Ferguson willed the Swordfish to break loose, the veins standing out at his temples with the strain. Down below, Billy Bennett was rattling off a whole pan of ammunition at the barge. The tense, expectant crew could see the tracer bouncing off the barge’s steel sides like glowing golf balls. Still she came on. They were almost finished now. Smith prepared to shout ‘abandon ship’.

  Suddenly, startling, the hawser broke. A great singing length of thick rope came whipping across the superstructure taking all with it, as the Swordfish streaked forwards – and out of harm’s way. On the barge there was an immediate reaction. A searchlight flicked on. An icy white finger of light parted the fog. Desperately the man at the tiller tried to swing his clumsy craft round, as the Swordfish shot forwards, thrashing the water to a crazy fury at its stern. To no avail. Next moment the barge crunched into the side of the jetty. Concrete crumbled. There was the ear-splitting sound of rending metal. A second later the barge came to an abrupt halt.

  On board the Swordfish, the crew cheered wildly, as the boat surged forwards, leaving the crippled, stranded barge to disappear into the fog. ‘Cor ferk a duck,’ Ginger cried to no one in particular, ‘the old Swordie does it again.’ Then, looking up at Ferguson’s strained, relieved face in the light of the bridge, he called up, ‘What about splicing the bleeding mainbrace, Nelson. I think the lads need it after that little carry-on.’

  Surprisingly enough, Ferguson agreed and now the crew stood about the wet, dripping deck, as the Swordfish plodded steadily down the Rhine, coming ever closer to the German frontier, drinking strong rum and chatting about the strange episode, until a solemn Bennett, his fat face puzzled, said to Smith, ‘Sir, I recognised the chap on the bridge of that barge. Caught a glimpse in the light of that last burst of tracer.’

  ‘You did, Billy?’

  ‘Yessir, me and Ginger over there was in the knocking shop, excuse me, sir, house of ill-repute.’

  At Smith’s side a relieved Dickie laughed at the big fat man’s choice of phrase and said, ‘My God, Billy, you’ll drink your char with your little pinkie stuck at an angle next.’

  ‘Didn’t think it proper to use them words in front of an officer, sir,’ Billy Bennett said. ‘But anyhow, we was in there when we had a little bull-and-cow with a civvie. Said we English’ve got a yellow streak. I was going to paste him one, but Ginger there said—’

  ‘Get on with it, Billy,’ Smith said urgently.

  ‘Well, sir, the feller in the knocking shop was the same feller who was on the bridge of that barge.’

  ‘Oh, I say, that’s torn it!’ Dickie gasped.

  Smith scratched his bare head a little ruefully. ‘I dare say it has. It means the swine are on to us again. They’ve been following us all along ever since Dordrecht. The question is – will they be waiting for us at the frontier?’

  Dickie Bird thought for a moment, then raising his voice, asked, ‘Did any of you lads see a radio aerial or anything like that on that damned barge?’

  There was a chorus of no’s and a lot of shaking heads.

  Smith asked, ‘Why did you ask that question, Dickie?’

  ‘Well, that barge captain might have done us a favour. If we assume that he was going to send us to the bottom before we ever reached the Fatherland, then the Huns won’t be expecting us to arrive in their country. Now, I hope, the bargee won’t be able to report that he has failed in his attempt.’

  Smith’s face lit up. ‘By God, you might just be right, old bean. If he can’t communicate and the Huns assume the dirty deed has been carried out, then with a bit of luck we might just slip by the frontier without any further trouble.’

  Dickie flashed a look at the glowing dial of his wristwatch. ‘Well, Smithie, in about an hour we’ll find out. Now I suggest we go back to the wardroom and resume those pink gins. I feel I need one.’

  * * *

  It was well past midnight. Creeping forwards at a snail’s pace in the thick fog, Smith tensed as he prepared to open the throttles wide. It was going to be a terrible risk with visibility down to zero, but it was the only way he could give the Swordfish su
fficient momentum to allow her to drift by the German frontier with her engines not working. Next to him, CPO Ferguson tensed, too. He realised only too well the chances the skipper would have to take in a moment.

  ‘It looks as if we’ve got about five miles to the German frontier crossing, sir,’ he broke the heavy brooding silence. ‘I ken it’s risky, but I doubt if there’s a thing out there. I’ve been harking these last ten minutes.’

  ‘All right, Chiefie, we’ll do it,’ Smith said through gritted teeth. He started to pull back the two throttles. The Swordfish began to pick up speed. The two men could feel the deck start to vibrate under their feet. Swiftly, her prow rose out of the water.

  Smith flashed a glance at the dials. She’d almost reached twenty knots an hour. They were surging through the fog at a tremendously risky speed. God, he prayed there’d be no craft in their way; there’d be one hell of a crash.

  Smith, beads of perspiration standing out on his forehead with strain and worry, counted off the minutes to himself. His gaze flashed from left to right, trying to penetrate the grey wall of fog, alert for the first sign of another boat. Then, he’d done it. He pulled back the throttles and turned off the motors. A sudden silence. The hiss as the Swordfish slowing down a little, was carried forwards by its own momentum. Leaning out of the bridge, CPO Ferguson hissed to the two lookouts on both sides of the bow, ‘Keep a weather eye open now, mind ye!’

  They didn’t reply. They were too intent on their task, peering through the gloom for the first sign of danger.

  The Swordfish was slowing down noticeably now. Smith told himself they should be at the German frontier, but it was hard to say. They were hemmed in on all sides by that grey gloom. Suddenly he started. There was no mistaking it – the soft put-put of a small boat. There was someone out there. He looked at Ferguson. The old Scot’s face clearly registered his shock. Was it the German authorities? As the Swordfish slowed down even more, the steady throbbing of the unknown boat’s engine came ever closer.