The Kaiser’s Navigator (Peter Sparke Book 2)

by Scott Chapman

  Opitz walked over to the wall and picked up the heavy Mauser. Wearing a worn uniform given to him by the Royal Navy four years earlier and hoisting a rifle onto his shoulder which he barley remembered how to fire, Lt. Opitz became one of the many thousands of men and women, on both sides, who would decide the fate of Germany during the coming revolution.

  Chapter Twenty Four

  "I am very sorry," said Sparke, "perhaps there is some mistake. I am looking into a young German Navy officer who survived the sinking of the Gneisenau in 1914. Is this the same man, I wonder?"

  "Oh, yes, yes. The 'Eagles' photograph," said the older of the two librarians. "We have that photograph also."

  The three men walked into the main library and there on the wall was the reproduction of the front page of a 1914 British newspaper. "Kaiser's Eagles have their wings clipped!" shouted the headline next to a photograph of a group of prisoners guarded by grinning British soldiers with fixed bayonets. Opitz could be clearly seen in the centre of the group, the only man wearing a navy uniform. Sparke quickly read the article next to the photograph and cringed at the wording from the World War One newspaper. The fact that he could not understand how Germans could possibly promote a document that used terms like "arrogant Huns" and "strutting Bosch" probably said more about Sparke's attitudes than it did about the Germans. To the two librarians, it was simply archaic nonsense, totally irrelevant to the modern world.

  Sparke straightened up from reading the caption. "I am a little confused. I did a thorough search on Herr Opitz online but found virtually nothing, certainly not these images. Do you mind if I ask why nothing is available online?”

  The two men nodded sadly. "This is a very real issue," said the older. "We have a great web strategy to put these images online. It is a very good structure for sharing our knowledge. We wanted to do something on the centenary of his birth, but that was just after reunification so, of course, budgets were cut back."

  "Priorities," said the younger man, nodding.

  "Then we wanted to do mark the centenary of the Antarctic Expedition, but then there was the economic crisis."

  The other librarian nodded. "Yes, Greece."

  "So, of course, budgets were reduced."

  "Priorities," said the younger man again.

  Still trying to absorb such a huge amount of new information, Sparke nodded along.

  "Priorities," he echoed.

  "Are there any other photographs?" asked Sparke.

  "Unfortunately not," said the younger man. "We only had the South Pole photograph originally. The Eagles photograph was given to us by a local author and the Armed Librarian image came from the newspaper."

  "He was the librarian who opened the library again after the revolution," explained the younger man. "Things were very dangerous at that time. He was a famous revolutionary Bolshevik."

  "He was a counter-revolutionary," corrected the older man. "He commanded a unit of the Freikorps who fought against the communists."

  "Really?" asked the younger man. "I thought he was a German Che Guevara."

  "No, not a Che Guevara."

  "And the Antarctic photograph?" asked Sparke.

  "Yes, he travelled in the South Pole and was a very respected navigator."

  Sparke walked over to the photo of Opitz on his skis. "I never heard of any book or articles that he wrote about this. Is he published anywhere?"

  "Unfortunately, there is very little written about German explorations of that time. When the war began, everything else was forgotten about, and afterwards there were other priorities."

  Sparke's mind was already full of options. If records of the German Expedition could still be found, perhaps it could lead to some point where it may have crossed paths with the Santa Simone.

  "Was there any archive left, books, maps, journals that sort of thing?"

  The older librarian looked pained. "No, nothing of that sort at all. The only things we actually have are these photographs and the few small gifts he left to the library. Of course, that was the old library."

  "Family?" Sparke.

  The librarian shook his head sadly. "Sorry, no. He had no brothers or sisters and his father died shortly before he did."

  "You mentioned some gifts he left?"

  "Well, when he became librarian, we were short of books. He had a small collection of books about naval history and exploration, I think, and he left them to us."

  "Do you know which books he left to the library?"

  "I am afraid not, no. You see we have no way of tracking books by their donor. But let us have a look on the system."

  The three walked over to the desk and the librarian turned the screen so that they could all see it. He clicked his way through several pages then opened a search page, typing 'Opitz' into the blank space provided.

  There was nothing.

  Next the librarian entered 'Antarctic' and several entries appeared, most seemed to be about wildlife. Sparke's eye was drawn to those with the oldest dates of publication.

  "The Second German Antarctic Expedition, Report to the Imperial Academy, 1914." The author's name was given as Filchner. "Ah, this was a private publication for the Academy; it would never have been on public sale. According to our system it seems never to have been lent out or requested. Come."

  The librarian printed off a paper slip, and holding it in front of him like a map, swept out from behind the desk and walked quickly down a hallway with Sparke close behind. The younger librarian, grateful for any diversion, joined them.

  They passed through the brightly lit main library, and into what seemed like a storeroom. The shelves were metal and the lighting was less bright. The librarian walked down one of the racks, it was not a large room, and stopped in front of a shelf. The spines of these books were slightly discoloured and tatty, their index numbers peeling from their spines.

  "Here we are, the volume." He handed Sparke the old book. "There will be some reference here to Herr Opitz, I'm sure."

  Sparke held the dusty book. Regardless of what was in this book, there could be no mention of the Santa Simone. Such a revelation would certainly have caused newspaper stories and a search. He looked at the slip of paper in the librarian's hand and tried to read the rest of the entry.

  "What are these items here?" asked Sparke, unable to make out the German abbreviations of the two other entries.

  "This indicates that there are two technical appendices to the main book."

  "Also by Filchner?"

  "Probably, but it was not uncommon for the leader of an expedition to be given the authorship of all of the formal documents."

  Sparke lifted his eyes to the shelf where Filchner's book had been sitting. Two slim volumes sat next to the gap it had left. He reached his hand up and lifted them down. One bore the title, "Navigation of the Ground Party, German Antarctic Expedition, Filchner, 1913." Sparke opened the title page and in a tiny typeface he saw the words, 'Navigation Details; Lt. M. Opitz."

  The second of the two slim books was in considerably worse condition. Sparke opened it at random and saw that it did not contain printed text at all. It was a handwritten ledger of some sort.

  He stepped back into a spot of brighter light and read the words on the cover. "Navigation Log, SS Santa Simone, Buenos Aires."

  Chapter Twenty Five

  The large drill room of the Marine barracks in Bremen echoed with the voices of scores of men. A huge oil painting of the Kaiser gazed down over the noisy throng of men, all dressed in the uniforms of the services he had done so much to develop.

  To a big-ship navy man like Opitz, the random combination of uniforms was almost funny. A group of sailors and marines stood chatting happily around a tiny stove whose heat was immediately lost in the high-ceilinged room. An officer leaned down to light a cigarette from the match in the cupped hands of a young rating. It was a world turned upside down.

  In the throng, Opitz lost contact with the Marine officer who had brought him here, so he headed toward
s a table with a huge steaming urn from which a civilian was offering what passed for coffee.

  The civilian with the coffee was, like everyone else in the room, armed. Ammunition boxes and weapons seemed to be everywhere. Opitz took his mug of thin coffee and wandered up towards the far end of the hall where a junior officer was writing names and ranks of men on a blackboard.

  Behind the blackboard Opitz could see several maps on the walls. He tilted his head trying to read the maps. They seemed to be street maps of the city, and as he was trying to find his current location, the room echoed with the heavy sound of a rifle butt being hammered on the floor.

  The room fell into a semblance of order, as a man climbed up onto the top of a table and looked around the faces turned up towards him.

  "Korvettenkapitän Ehrhardt and the Brigade are on the outskirts of the city," he said in a surprisingly quiet voice. "At noon they will enter and make their way to the City Hall." The room had now fallen completely silent. "To coincide with their action, we will take control of the Post Office and Police Headquarters. All officers step up here."

  The officers moved through the crowd and gathered round the table. The junior officer who had been writing on the blackboard spoke with them each briefly. Then he informed the man on the table that there were ten officers and eighty-eight men on the roster.

  The man on the table nodded and then turned to nearest officer, which was Opitz. "You, take the first ten men. There is a truck and driver in the yard. You will take the Police Headquarters. Hold it until relieved. If anyone offers any resistance you are authorised to shoot them."

  "By whom?" asked Opitz, but the officer ignored him.

  The blackboard officer clamped his hand on Opitz's shoulder and shouted, "First ten men to me." He counted out ten men and then turned to Opitz. "Check their weapons and ammo. At exactly noon you need to take control of the Police Headquarters. The Driver knows his way around." For a moment his eyes met Opitz's with a startling intensity. "You understand. At noon, you will occupy it and hold it. Yes?"

  Opitz nodded. He turned to look at the men who now stared at him, expecting order, expecting security. He was an officer and his first responsibility was to his men. "Check and clear your weapons. Report on your ammunition."

  One at a time the men responded and reported their weapon clean and the amount of ammunition they were carrying. Once all the men had shouted their answers, Opitz pointed to the last man who had spoken. "We need more ammunition. Take him," he pointed to the man next to him, “and get more, lots more."

  Fifteen minutes later the truck rattled out of the barracks and into town, as the occupants of the truck stuffed rounds into their cartridge belts hung across their chests. The few people they saw in the streets ignored them. Truckloads of armed men had ceased to be a spectacle in recent times.

  In the seat next to the Driver, Opitz asked him how far to the Police Headquarters. The Driver told him ten minutes. Opitz told him to get close but stay out of sight of the HQ until he gave the command.

  They came to a slow halt before they reached the corner of the square where the Police Headquarters was. Opitz walked along the wall slowly and peered around the corner. He could make out men moving around inside and a long red banner draped from the small balcony above the front entrance. The original Imperial emblem, which had adorned the building, lay smashed in the road.

  He went back to the truck and began pointing to the men as he spoke. "You three with me, you three stay on the truck until you get clear to the other side of the square, you four get off at the clock tower in the middle of the square and take cover. Fire only if we are fired on." He turned to the Driver. "When you get across the square, you and the other three will move into the building when I do." He looked into the eyes of the dozen men. "Questions? Good. Move when I say."

  He and his three men crept up to the corner, still out of sight of the police office. He watched the hands on the clock tower. Then as the big hand moved directly up to the 12, he waved the truck forward. At his command, the truck sped round the corner, stopped briefly at the clock tower where four of the men spilled off and took position, then it disappeared into the narrow street across the square where the Driver and the remaining men jumped out and walked back until they could peer around the corner.

  As the truck had sped across the square, there had been a flurry of motion within the building. As the clock hit noon, Opitz stepped forward into the square. A ragged fusillade of shots erupted from the building, none coming anywhere near him. So bad was the accuracy of the shooting that Opitz felt in virtually no danger. He unslung his rifle from his shoulder, turned to the three men behind him and said the words that junior officers the world over have given as their most worthwhile command.

  "Follow me."

  He began running across the square towards the police station. As soon as he moved, the four men at the clock tower began firing, the men behind him began their charge across the square, and the men at the far side of the square began sprinting towards the building's side door.

  The attack from two directions and the accurate fire from the clock tower threw the occupiers of the police station into immediate panic. Most began to spill out of the back of the building. Those who remained, almost a dozen, surrendered or were shot where they stood. Once the first two groups were in the building, the clock tower group followed them in. The men ran to the back of the building and began firing rapidly into the retreating Bolsheviks.

  In barely five minutes the whole thing was over. One of his men was pulling down the red banner while others began pushing the several prisoners down into the basement. Opitz detailed men to take position on all four upper corners of the building, told the Driver to fetch the truck, and settled down to wait for orders from someone.

  Chapter Twenty Six

  The book in Sparke's hand suddenly felt impossibly delicate. He felt that the slightest clumsy move would cause it to collapse into dust. In fact the leather bound volume had been built with rough handling in mind; it was a daily working journal produced to be used at sea in all manner of ships and with the expectation that many pairs of hands would use it frequently, and in all weather.

  On closer inspection he could see that the book's front cover title had been printed in two parts. The words "Navigation Log" had been stamped on the cover, probably at the time it was bound, and the ship's name had been added later.

  Sparke had a decent understanding of navigation – he could find a location on a map easily enough – but long experience had taught him that raw data could tell a story that only an expert could understand. The story which this log of numbers told needed to be read by someone who understood the rhythm of its language, not just the words.

  On a normal weekday morning, the tiny library in Feldkirchen would play host to up to half a dozen people at any one time: retired villagers, young mothers taking an hour between childcare and the unending housework, an occasional local historian…but today was very different.

  Within an hour of discovering the two volumes, Sparke had a team of four people from his office, plus a carload of computer technology, flying down the autobahn from Munich. Within two hours, both volumes were being electronically scanned, the handwriting, from over a hundred years previously, being turned into electronic characters.

  Birgitte, one of the team from Munich who had extensive experience in dealing with turning paper documents into electronic data, watched the screen light up with characters the system could not decipher. The practice of how to write something as simple as a number had changed remarkably in the time since the mariners had made these records, so it took her almost an hour to teach the system how to read the Navigation Log alone. The Technical Journal written by Opitz about the German Expedition was in printed form and was almost immediately readable.

  Sparke knew that at some point the navigational trail of the Expedition and the Santa Simone must have crossed, and, logically, at the last recorded position in the Santa Simone records.<
br />
  "Birgitte," said Sparke, "I need you to extract from both these books all navigational co-ordinates and keep them in date order. Then we need to plot both sets of data to create a map of where and when the people who created them travelled. All good?"

  "Shouldn't be a problem. What do we do with it?"

  "Upload it to our own cloud and, of course," he said straightening up and smiling to the two local librarians, "share everything with the staff of the Feldkirchen Library. All of this information belongs to them and will be published by them with any help we can offer."

  The older librarian beamed back, a little uncertainly. There was nothing wrong with visitors copying documents so long as it was done within the laws of copyright and rules of the library, however having a team of experts laden with state-of-the-art technology bursting into their institution on a quiet morning was unsettling, to say the least.

  Sparke left his team to deal with the documents and stepped out into the quiet street. He took a deep breath and called the Chief Secretary in London on his personal number.

  "Mr. Sparke," said the Chief Secretary, "how can we help you?"

  In moments of high crisis and pressure, Sparke had an unusual physiological response. His heartbeat dropped, his blood pressure fell and his breathing became deeper and more regular. Intellectually, he also developed something approaching tunnel vision when he had to summarise events and options.

  "Some recent information has turned up in documents we have found in the library of the home town of the German officer, Opitz. He took part in an expedition to the Antarctic shortly before the war. He later wrote a short technical summary of the navigation of the expedition which is held here in the library. Along with this summary there is, what appears to be, the navigational log of the Santa Simone. This log shows the last recorded position of the ship. We are plotting the course of the expedition and the ship to see if they intersect."