by Alan Evans
Cassandra bucked and rolled as the men ran, staggered and sometimes crawled to their stations. Dobson fell once but took no account of it in his excitement. But he fell again at the head of the ladder leading down from the upper deck, twisted awkwardly as Cassandra pitched and so plunged headlong to the deck below. He was cursing shrilly, frightened, as he fell but then he crashed to the deck and lost consciousness.
Kelso bounced breathlessly onto the bridge and took over from Chivers. Smith heard the reports coming in, from Sandy Faulknor, the Gunnery Officer in the director control tower high above the bridge, and from all through the ship until Galloway’s clipped accent came from far aft with damage control. Sandy was thick-set and cool, sandy-haired — and freckled if the sun shone. The director control did just that: controlled the guns by directing their fire. The telescopic sight and rangefinder in the top were laid on the enemy and passed a common range and bearing to all guns. Then, when all that would bear on the target were ready, Sandy pressed the button and fired them together.
Cassandra was closing the other ship, which showed no light, made no reply to the demand being flashed again from the searchlight. But now Smith was closer and able to see her in the night. She was the right size and shape, with her superstructure standing forward and her funnel right aft…Altmark?
But then Nisbet shouted, “‘Nother ship port quarter!”
Smith swung his glasses, picked up this second ship almost dead astern and saw the flames prickle aboard her. He knew she had seen Cassandra because of the signalling searchlight and she was firing on them now. He snatched at the telephone and shouted to Sandy Faulknor, “Guns! Ship Red One-Six-Oh! Open fire!”
He heard that acknowledged by Sandy in the control top and then ordered, “Port twenty!” Because he had to turn to face this new threat, or rather to bring it onto the beam so all Cassandra’s 6-inch guns would bear. At the moment only those aft could fire at this new threat. But then the enemy shells screamed in to burst just ahead of Cassandra. They hurled up huge towers of dirty water that fell on the bridge like rain as they steamed through it. The hanging spray stank of explosive.
Smith spat it out, peered through the rain and saw Altmark — big as a house now and he was sure it was her — right on the bow and sliding around to starboard as Cassandra continued to turn. The 6-inch guns aft fired, tongues of flame leaping out yellow in the night. He turned and watched the other ship out there astern, did not see any hits, but briefly he saw her clearly through a break in the curtain of rain and spray. She was firing again, that red rash winking along the length of her. And he knew her.
Then a squall tore between and he lost sight of the enemy altogether. A second later her shells screamed in and this time he heard the hammer-blow as Cassandra was hit. He felt the shudder through the slender frame of her as if she winced under the blow. Another shell burst close alongside hurling water and shrapnel inboard. Splinters ripped into the canvas-covered protective padding around the bridge-screen and sliced through signal halyards so they fell across the back of the bridge. The guns aft fired again and he thought, Sandy up in the control top must still be able to see her. And: We’ll soon have turned far enough to fire broadsides.
He demanded, “Get me a report on that hit!”
He could not see Appleby but a bridge messenger shouted, “Aye, aye, sir!” And Smith saw him at the telephone.
Then Sandy Faulknor’s voice came through the speaker on the bridge, “Can’t see the enemy any longer, sir.”
Smith twisted in the chair again, glasses to his eyes, and found he could see neither the ship astern nor Altmark, both of them lost in the darkness made impenetrable by the rain that drove in near-solid clouds on the wind. He would have to search for them. He swore and went to the compass, peered into the dim-lit binnacle. He ordered, “Steer Oh-Two-Oh!”
Taggart, the Cox’n, at the wheel now, acknowledged, “Steer Oh-Two-Oh, sir!”
And when he found them? Altmark had not fired a shot so probably those rumours about her carrying concealed 6-inch guns were no more than just rumours. And the signal found aboard Orion had been incomplete. Altmark had been there but so had Brandenburg and she had shelled Orion.
Now Kelso asked, “What ship do you think it was that came up astern of us, sir?”
“That was Brandenburg.” And what could he do about her if he found her? Calliope had —
Kelso’s expression could not be read in the darkness but his voice was dubious and he objected, “She was reported in the South Atlantic.” By Calliope. On Christmas Day.
Smith fought down his irritation at being doubted still. He said with certainty, “Well, she’s here now.” He had sailed aboard her as a prisoner, studied her when she lay in that Brazilian river trying to make her repairs while he tried to baulk all the attempts of her crew. That, again, was the secret episode he could not divulge to Kelso or anyone else. Because he and Brandenburg had fought their own private war in that empty heart of Brazil, a neutral country, in contravention of international law. But he knew Brandenburg was out there in the night now. Smith climbed back into his chair and left Kelso to ponder that. He would find no comfort in it. If he believed it. They had barely glimpsed that ship astern so probably Kelso still did not believe that she was Brandenburg. Smith thought grimly, We’ll see.
The bridge messenger reported, “The hit was on the wireless office, sir. There was a small fire but that’s out. The office is a total loss, though, and most of the staff. Mister Galloway says he’ll let you have a full report soon.” That was the second office. The main office was still a burnt-out shell, awaiting refitting in a dockyard. Now Cassandra had no wireless at all.
“Very good.” Smith saw young Appleby was again at the front of the bridge, looking composed and seemingly not shaken by the recent action. He made a mental note then took up his glasses as Cassandra started to search.
Appleby thought that Nisbet had not run. When the firing started Appleby had backed away from the screen, his feet seeming to move of their own volition. Then the shell hit Cassandra and the splinters from the near-miss scythed across the bridge. Appleby had recoiled, fallen back into a corner and huddled there with his head buried in his arms. He only emerged when the firing ceased and made his way to the front of the bridge. No one seemed to have noticed his absence. Nisbet turned as he passed, for once forgetting to complain, and grinned at him, “Bit of excitement, eh, sir?” He sounded breathless. But he hadn’t run and hid.
All through his training as a cadet, Appleby had tried harder than the others. He knew the instructors thought him too frail to last the course. But he had listened to the experience of generations as his family talked and knew what to expect, what he had to do. So from the start he set out to lead, shouldered the loads, took the risks and the rough with the smooth, so in the end the instructors said of him. “Not much muscle but plenty of energy and guts.”
It was an act. Part of the related experiences he had listened to with churning stomach had been the casual description of the horrors of wounding and death in action. His father, grandfather, uncles, all of them seemed to take these as a matter of course, the bloody wreckage wrought by shell, mine or fire. He had known he was different yet accepted that he had to play the part expected of him. Besides, when he joined the Navy his country was at peace. Then when the war started he was buoyed up by one comment: “A lot of chaps went through the last war and never saw a shot fired in anger.” True, but…
But now his bluff had been called. Or would be, that was certain. He had got away with it this time but they would be in action again before long, he was sure of that, and sooner or later they would find him out. Then he would have to face them, and his family.
And Nisbet, the workshy whiner and grouser, who had not hidden.
Cassandra searched, quartering back and forth across the tract of ocean from where the action was fought. Smith knew now that Brandenburg and Altmark were sailing in company and both were bound for Norway. That narrowed down
the cone of search but the storm reduced the area of visibility during the hours of darkness to a circle less than a mile across with Cassandra soaring and plunging at its centre. Smith cold-bloodedly told himself the odds were a thousand to one against his finding the enemy.
He sat in his tall chair, at first with hands thrust deep in the pockets of his bridge-coat to hide their shaking. But that passed and it had been normal, a reaction that had always followed action when he had last commanded a ship. In this one brief exchange of fire with Brandenburg he had forgotten those twenty years “on the beach” and acted as if they had never been. He felt lonely no longer, his self-doubt was washed away. At that moment he was light-hearted, despite his cares. He was captain of Cassandra.
So he grinned, startling Galloway as he came staggering to the bridge and reported, “The wireless office is wrecked and burnt out, sir. The shell hit us just when the watch was changing. The men going off duty and those coming on were all there.” He paused and finished heavily, “Three wounded and six dead. That last figure includes all the wireless staff.” Since the main wireless office burned out with the loss of the staff on duty those that were left had worked in two watches.
That ended Smith’s short minutes of euphoria. He had not been long in Cassandra but he could match every man’s name and record to his face. He knew them. He had letters to write to widows and mothers, trying to offer some sympathy and comfort.
Galloway saw his bleak stare and was silent a moment, then asked, “I heard the ship that fired on us was Brandenburg, sir?” It was a question as much as a statement. Galloway, like Kelso and probably the other officers, was still doubting.
Smith answered, “It was.”
Galloway nodded, “I got a glimpse of her but I couldn’t be certain. Difficult to be sure of anything you see in this weather.”
Smith grinned wrily at Galloway and the delicate suggestion. “I’m sure. That was Brandenburg.”
Galloway swallowed that and said, “It looks as though we might have our hands full, then.” And went away.
The sky slowly lightened to a dirty grey that became a day of lowering black clouds over a heaving sea that tilted Cassandra first on her stern and then her bow. The green, foam-flecked wastes were empty. Smith ordered a return to his original course because he had lost the two ships and they were somewhere ahead of him now and steaming for Norway. He feared, believed, his daughter was aboard one of them. What if he came up with them? He had no illusions as to how Cassandra compared with Brandenburg, that would be an unequal contest to say the least.
And worse: he had found Altmark but then lost her. And without wireless he could not even report her last position to Admiralty. Nor could he cry for help. He and Cassandra were on their own.
3
Oberleutnant-zur-See Kurt Larsen looked out on that same wild scene of mountainous seas and clouds pendulous with rain or snow. He stood tall on the bridge of Brandenburg, one long arm wrapped over the screen to hold him against the wild pitching and rolling. His captain, Gustav Moehle, strode back and forth across the bridge, shoulders hunched and stepping wide-legged to keep his balance on the tilting, rocking gratings of the bridge.
A mile ahead Altmark vanished and reappeared as she sank into a trough between waves then lifted again on a crest. Kurt swept the horizon with his glasses clapped to his eyes then lowered them and added his report to the unspoken negatives of the silent lookouts, saying nothing because they saw nothing: “No sign of her, sir.”
Paul Brunner, Brandenburg’s Executive Officer, clung to the other side of the bridge. He grunted his agreement, “It looks like we’ve lost her, sir — or she’s lost us.”
Moehle scowled and swore. “A pity. She was ours for the taking. We’re close to home now and we can turn a blind eye to our orders and fight an action with another cruiser. I’m sick of sinking merchantmen.” He grabbed at the screen as Brandenburg rolled nearly on her beam ends, shoved himself upright and said, “But I wasn’t going to risk a night action. The darkness could cancel out all our advantages of speed and gunnery, and luck might give the Tommis the edge. It’s too risky.” He shook his head, then admitted with grudging respect, “And that captain was damned quick in coming around to bring his broadsides to bear. But if I could see him now…”
Smith still sat in his tall chair at the front of the bridge. Cassandra was trying to repair her damage. The carpenter could fix a patch on the bulkhead where the shell had ripped in to wreck the wireless office, but the office itself was another matter. It had to be cleaned and a party were at work on that. Then, like the main office, the burnt-out interior would be shut up, being of no further use until a dockyard could work on it.
Smith listened to Galloway’s report on this and nodded. There would be burials, too, either when they reached port or at sea. He felt cold to the bone, wet and miserable. Then Buckley appeared at his elbow and said, urging, “I’ve got a bit o’ breakfast for you, sir. Nothing hot because the galley stoves aren’t working on account of this weather.” Smith thought that this was the second day that he and Cassandra’s crew had eaten only cold food. There were likely to be more. But Buckley was going on, “You’ve had nothing except that cup o’ coffee and that was over an hour ago.”
Smith realised that he was hungry, and the thought of coffee was a pleasant one. He grinned at Buckley and his mother-hen act and said, “All right. I’ll come.” He told Harry Vincent, who had the watch, “Call me if anything is sighted.” Then he went to the steel box at the back of the bridge that was his sea cabin. He ate, but abstractedly, preparing his report in his head to be written when the hasty meal was done. Then there were the letters to write to next of kin. And there was Brandenburg; he had to think about her, remember all he could because the knowledge might help him if — when — he fought her again.
In the wardroom Chivers told the officers there grimly, “Well, this is supposed to be an unlucky ship but I think we were bloody lucky last night. If it was Brandenburg.”
Merrick, the lieutenant of Marines, said, “You’re not sure?”
“No. The Old Man is certain but he’s been on the beach since before young Appleby was born and — “ He stopped short then as he caught Galloway’s cold eye on him, then went on, “But if it was her then we were lucky and if we meet her again, well, all right, we’ve got to have a crack at her, but it won’t be exactly an equal contest.”
Faulknor said thoughtfully, “She’s bigger, two or three knots faster and has nine six-inch guns to our five.”
Chivers sniffed, “And if Calliope’s experience is anything to go by she’ll outrange us. Brandenburg fought her at the back end of last year, I don’t need to remind you, and left her in the dockyard for a good six months with a casualty list as long as your arm.”
They did not need reminding and sat in silence.
Dobson sat on the crowded mess deck, a dressing around his head, and listened to his mates. He stored up all their recollections of their parts in the fighting. He would use them later. He had known nothing of the brief action. Some members of the damage control party had found his unconscious body and carried him to the sick bay. The surgeon had discharged him from there barely an hour ago. He had seen nothing of the damage done to the ship or the bodies awaiting burial.
He was sorry to have missed the battle, as he thought of it. Still, the facts could be slightly adjusted to improve his story when he got home: “Some of the chaps copped it. I got a bash on the head but I kept going long enough to see Jerry run for it.” The laceration hidden under the dressing covering his forehead might leave a scar that would show when he leaned against the bar with his cap shoved to the back of his head.
He came from a family that ran its own fruit and veg business in North London. When he left school he went straight into the business where his father told him daily that he would never be any bloody good, with his nose stuck in them flaming comics when he should have been working. Dobson was not interested in fruit and veg but he devour
ed the comics with their stories of heroism. The hero always triumphed and nobody got hurt. He knew life wasn’t really like that, but just the same, when he joined the Navy he was certain he would return home as a hero. His father told him he was a bloody fool: “If they’d tried to conscript you I could ha’ got you made exempt! What d’ye want to volunteer for?”
Dobson didn’t care. He would show his father; he would show the lot of them. But now on the mess deck he knew he had just missed an opportunity to prove his gallantry. So he said yearningly, “It would ha’ been something if we could ha’ sunk her. Maybe if we’d had another captain…?” Heads nodded in agreement.
Jackman, Petty Officer, heard those remarks in passing and paused. He had a savage glare that silenced conversations and a mouth like a steel trap. He was a professional who looked after his men but now he peered at Dobson, black eyes glinting under thick, black brows as if disbelieving what he heard. “What the hell d’you know about it? What d’you think the Old Man should ha’ done?”
Nisbet put in, “Well, I dunno, but he’s been a long time ashore. Maybe if we had a younger feller that had been to sea lately — “
Jackman cut him off, “Like you or Dobson, maybe? Captains Nisbet and Dobson doing a double act on the bridge; what a sight!” That raised laughter and Nisbet grinned but Dobson reddened, embarrassed and angry. Jackman went on, “I’m thinking the Old Man’s right and that was Brandenburg. You spotted her, Nisbet, my son, and all credit to you, but until you did nobody, including you, thought she was within a thousand miles of us. She had the jump on us but the Old Man still got us into action and nearly into a position to fire broadsides, when the weather closed in. And we’re still here.”