iron pirate

by Unknown Author

  He was young but prematurely bald, a fact made more obvious by the dark hair on either temple. He was a thoughtful-looking man, introspective, with the sensitive features of a priest. He was probably brooding on his own predicament, which had been thrust on him in the name of duty.

  Younger licked his lips and tried to relax his body, muscle by muscle. When he considered what he intended to do he was surprised at his strength and conviction. There was no fear at all. He thought of the torpedo which had blasted the old ship apart, men screaming and on fire, others being carried away by the suction to the same Atlantic grave.

  This would be for them. The Old Man, Colin Ames, all of them.

  With a start he realised that the old boatswain had opened his eyes and was watching him without recognition. His eyes were washed-out blue, so pale in the glare that they were like a blind

  man's.

  Younger smiled. 'Okay, Shiner?' He wondered if he knew where they were. How they had got here.

  The boatswain opened and closed his hands. They lay on the rock beside him, as if they were independent of their owner.

  He said huskily, 'Wot time we goin' to eat, Sparks?'

  Younger shot a quick glance at the two Germans, but neither had noticed.

  He hissed, 'Don't call me that, mate!'

  The eyes did not blink. 'You're Peter Younger, that's who. He nodded, satisfied. 'Sparks'

  Younger sighed. 'Ames is dead. I've taken his place.' He could feel his plan running out like sand. 'The krauts wouldn't let me within a mile of this lot if they knew.' He gripped his arm fiercely. Through the ragged jersey it felt like a stick. 'Help me. To even the score for the lads and the old Star, eh?'

  He saw understanding cloud the pale eyes for the first time. He said shakily, 'All gone. The lot of 'em. Jim, Colin, and -' he stared round, suddenly desperate - 'where's -'

  Younger gripped his arm and said quietly, It's all right, Shiner. The cat didn't feel anything. He's buried with the lads now.' He watched the sentry's shadow reaching across the rough slope. 'Because of these bastards.'

  The old man closed his eyes. 'Dead, you say?'

  Younger looked down. Please help me. In God's name, help.

  He said aloud, 'It was a U-boat. But they're all the same. The crew here don't understand like we do. They seem to think a war's for someone else to fight.' He steadied himself, knowing he would break down otherwise. 'Will you give me a hand?'

  'Just tell me what to do, Sparks.' He smiled but it made him look even sadder. 'Sorry, I mean Mr Ames.'

  Younger sat back on his haunches. It was suddenly crystal-clear what he would do. As if he could see it happening in slow motion, something already past.

  He considered what the man Mason had told him about one operator being familiar to another. He had always known it, and the radio officer who had taught him had described how you could often recognise the sender before the actual ship was identified.

  Did that mean Mason or one of the others would make the signal to keep in with their captors?

  It made him sweat to think of it. The raider was off to attack the biggest prize yet. It must be really important to leave some of their own people behind. None of them seemed to know where the attack might be launched. In case they were captured and interrogated before the raider could make good her escape. The stark picture of the drifting lifeboat, the moments when he had been almost too terrified to open his eyes when he had drowsed over the tiller. They had all been waiting for him. The nightmare had never gone away. They had died one by one, mostly in silence with a kind of passive acceptance.

  It would not be much, but his actions might help to save other helpless merchant seamen. He hoped his old mother would find out that he had died this way. His dry lips cracked into a smile. M ight get the George Cross. Something for his Dad to brag about down at the Shipwright's Arms.

  Another shadow fell across them. 'We eat soon.' It was the senior operator, apparently the only one who spoke English. He would, of course.

  Thanks.'

  The German glanced down at the old boatswain. 'He okay?'

  Old Shiner did not open his eyes. 'Right as bloody ninepence, la.'

  The German turned away. That last sentence had thrown him.

  He walked down to the water's edge and stared at the dark water. It shelved away steeply after that. Just a pile of rock in the middle of nowhere, he thought.

  His name was Ernst Genscher and his home was in Leipzig. It would be cold there now. Winter always came early to that city. I Ie tried to see it as in his boyhood, the spires and fine buildings. Not as on his last leave. The bomb debris, Russian prisoners working to clear the streets of corpses and rubble. The prisoners had looked like human scarecrows, and had been guarded by units of the SS. He thought of his divisional officer. Leutnant Bauer. They had never got on together. He smiled bitterly. That was why he had been detained for his final job. Bauer would have been right at home in the SS.

  How much longer would the war last, he wondered? He and (he others would end up in some prisoner-of-war camp in England or Canada. It might not be too bad. It was like their situation here in this damnable place, he thought. Neither side wanted to antagonise the other in case the wrong one came out victorious.

  He thought of his companions. They were more worried than they admitted. Some even expected the Prinz to come back for them. A tiger had never been known to come back to release a tethered goat.

  Genscher replaced his cap and smiled at his earlier show of discipline with the sentry.

  He looked at his watch. He would send the signal in a few hours time, just before sunset. His priest's face brightened into a smile.

  It was somehow appropriate.

  The three captains sat in Hemrose's deep armchairs and held out their glasses to be refilled.

  Hemrose crossed one leg over the other and plucked his shirt away from his body. The air was hot and lifeless, and even with the scuttles open it was hard to ease the discomfort. The glass seemed steady enough, Hemrose thought, but it smelled like a storm. It was all they needed.

  He watched his steward pause to take Captain Eric Duffield's glass to be topped up. Rhodesia s captain was a big, powerful man, whose face had once been very handsome. A bit too smarmy for Hemrose's taste. Always excelled at sport and athletics. Not any more, Hemrose thought with small satisfaction.

  He had forgotten how many Horse's Necks he had downed, nor did he care much. It was getting more like a wake than a relaxed drink in harbour with his captains, with a good dinner to follow. They would not be his captains much longer. He shied away from the thought.

  With an effort he stood up and crossed to the nearest scuttle. The lights of Simonstown glittered on the water like a swarm of fireflies, while here and there small boats moved through the dusk between the anchored warships. It could be peacetime, he thought. Well, almost.

  He heard Duffield say, 'Good place to settle down, South Africa. I'd think about it myself after this lot's over, but you never know.' Hemrose gritted his teeth together. He meant that he would be staying on in the service, promoted probably to end his time in command of a base, or with a nice staff job in Whitehall.

  The New Zealand captain, Chantril, replied, 'We've not won the bloody war yet.' His accent took the edge from his words. He was feeling it too. The chance to meet and destroy the raider. Become a part of the navy's heritage.

  Hemrose turned and signalled to his steward. 'I still can't believe it, you know.'

  Duffield smiled. 'Believe or accept? There's a difference.' Hemrose ignored him. 'A whole ship gone west, not even a scrap of wreckage discovered?'

  Chantril said, 'It happened to HMAS Sydney. Her loss is still a

  mystery.'

  Duffield glanced at his watch. He could not wait to eat up and go. Get back to his own ship and tell them all how Hemrose was taking his unfought defeat.

  He said, 'The backroom boys at the Admiralty know more than they let on

  Hemrose glared. 'B
loody useless, most of them!'

  Duffield coughed. 'We'll probably never know.'

  Hemrose pushed a strand of hair from his eyes. He was getting drunk. 'That Jerry is still around. I'll stake my reputation on it.'

  The others remained silent. They probably considered his reputation had already slipped away.

  I've had my team working round the clock.' Hemrose pictured the charts, the layers of signal pads and folios. All for nothing. We had a damn good try anyway.'

  They both stared at him. It was the nearest he had ever come to an admission of failure.

  The thought of sitting through dinner with them made Hemrose feel slightly sick. Chantril was all right, a real professional, but tonight was not the time. He had a letter to write to Beryl, and a report to complete for the Admiralty. After that, he could almost feel the carpet being dragged from under him. Perhaps they would both accept an excuse, go back to their ships instead -

  He looked up, angry and startled, as if he had spoken aloud,

  'Well, what is it now?'

  The commander nodded to the seated officers and then handed a signal pad to his superior.

  Hemrose had to read it twice, his face shining with sweat, as if he had been running.

  He said slowly, 'From Admiralty, gentlemen. Thirty minutes ago a signal was received from the Cable and Wireless station on St Jorge.' He could tell from Duffield's expression he hadn't a clue where that was. 'It reads Am under attack by German cruiser.' He lowered the pad and eyed them grimly. 'There was no further transmission. We may draw our own conclusions.'

  Chantril exclaimed. 'I know the place! Christ, it's nor'-east of Ascension. What the hell is he -'

  Duffield said, 'And all the time -'

  Hemrose remained grave and under control even though he wanted to yell out loud. It was like having a great orchestra or band pounding into your ears, shutting out all else but those vital words.

  He said, 'Yes, all the time we thought the German was destroyed.' He could not resist it. 'Some of us, anyway.'

  Chantril stood up and knocked over a glass without even seeing it.

  'What is he trying to do?'

  Hemrose smiled gently. 'Do? Who really cares? He probably intended to carry out a last attack before running to some friendly South American bolthole, Graf Spee all over again. Kapitan Hechler he spat out the name will know that heavy forces are to the north of him.' He nodded. He will head south after this, then scuttle, whether he likes it or not.'

  'Can we rely on that signal, sir?'

  Hemrose looked at him and beamed. 'What? Can you doubt your backroom boys at the Admiralty? Tch, tch!' It was like a tonic.

  Commander Godson shifted from one foot to the other. The signal had knocked the breath out of him. It was like opening a door and expecting to meet an old friend, only to be confronted by a maniac.

  Hemrose looked at him, but saw his own expression as it would be remembered after this day. Grave and confident.

  'Make a signal to Admiralty, Toby. The squadron is leaving without delay.' Thank God he had insisted on fuelling from lighters; it would have taken another hour to clear the port otherwise. He took his time to look at the gold wristwatch which Beryl had given him.

  Pipe special sea dutymen to their stations in one hour.' He looked at the others as poor Godson fled from the cabin. 'Another drink, eh?' He grinned. 'Afore ye go, as the man said.'

  He watched their faces, each man thinking of his own ship's readiness for sea. Hemrose added gently, 'Call up your ships from here.' He recalled the Rhodesia's great display of speed and swank when she had joined the squadron. 'I don't want to leave here alone!'

  Later he said, 'It must be fate. I knew we were destined to meet. Right from the beginning, I always knew.' He glanced round the cabin affectionately. 'Settle the score.'

  At the prescribed time, as watertight doors were slammed shut and men bustled to their stations for leaving harbour, Hemrose mounted the Wiltshire's bridge and looked towards the lights of I he shore. The raider had not allowed for anyone making a last desperate signal, any more than they would expect three British cruisers to be ready, and in the right place.

  In his mind he could see the chart, south-west. Close the trap which the German had sprung on himself .

  He touched his cap to Godson as he reported the ship ready to proceed.

  It was no longer just a remote possibility. There soon would be (wo lines of oak leaves around his peak.

  It was a proud moment. There should be a band playing.

  He turned and looked at the chief yeoman of signals.

  He said, 'Make to squadron, Yeo. Weigh anchor and follow father.'

  The sort of signal they always remembered. He could not stop grinning. The fact that Duffield would hate it, was a bonus.

  Hechler came out of his dream like a drowning man fighting up lor a gasp of air.

  Even as he propped himself on one elbow and jammed the telephone to his ear he knew what it was. The only surprise was that he had been able to sleep at all.

  It was Froebe. 'W/T office has reported the signal, sir.' He sounded cheerful. 'Right on time.'

  Hechler stared around the tiny sea-cabin, his things ready to snatch up, the place in total disorder.

  'Thank you. You know what to do.' He thought of the wild dream which had been driven away by the telephone's shrill call. Her nakedness, her desire, the way she had writhed beneath him as if to postpone the conquest.

  He said, 'I'll be up shortly.' He hung the phone on its cradle above the bunk and wondered what she was doing now. Thinking, but not regretting? Hoping, but not allowing it to reach out too far. He slid from the bunk and suddenly craved a shower. Even that was already too late.

  He thought of the senior operator, Genscher, he had left on the islet. He had obeyed orders, no matter what he thought about the need or the futility of it.

  Even now the signal would be flashing around the world. The raider had been verified and slotted into one section of this great ocean. Brains would be working overtime as staff officers rearranged their thinking and defences, like drawing the strings of a huge bag. Except that the Prinz was nowhere near the small islet, and was speeding in the opposite direction.

  Hechler deliberately stripped himself to the waist. The narrow door opened slightly and he saw the faithful Pirk peering in at him with a steaming bowl of water for his shave. He had understood. But Pirk always had. Ice, sunshine, bombardments or dodging enemy aircraft, Pirk's world ran on quite different lines.

  The telephone rang again and Pirk handed it to him.

  Hechler said, 'Captain?'

  This time it was Theil. 'Exercise action stations, sir?'

  Not yet.' He thought surprisingly of Nelson. 'Let them have one more good meal. It may be the last for some time.'

  Theil grunted. 'Dawn attack, sir?'

  'Yes. As planned, Viktor. Let me know when the admiral is on his bridge.'

  He turned to the mirror and touched his face. As she had done. 'It's going to be a very long night, old friend.' But Pirk had left. He lathered his cheeks with care and though of each last detail. The Arados would have to be prepared well before dawn. Every station and gun-mounting checked and visited by a senior officer. The last meal for some time. Forever, if things went badly wrong. He searched through his mind for flaws. His landing party had played their part. Now it was up to them. He grimaced at his image in the mirror. At one time he had nursed doubts. He had imagined then that the enemy had some secret strategy which neither he nor Operations had recognised.

  Now he knew differently. There was no secret plan. Once again, the Prinz Luitpold's luck had won through.

  Shortly after midnight Hechler made his way into the bridge. That last cat-nap had driven the tiredness away. Or was it the prospect of action?

  In the darkness figures moved towards him, or held motionless at their positions. As if they had never shifted. It was a beautiful night, bright stars, and a deep, unbroken swell again. Gudegast ha
d already reported that there might be rain with a southeasterly wind. He never sounded as if he trusted the signalled broadcasts as much as his own intuition.

  Leitner's pale outline glided through the watchkeepers, and Hechler could smell his cologne as he groped his way to the forward part of the bridge.

  'A good beginning he said calmly. 'They'll not forget this day.'

  Hechler was glad when the admiral had departed for his quarters. To prepare himself, or to share the last hours with his aide, he did not know or care.

  As the time dragged on, the weather began to change. It grew much colder, and the steep swell became visible on either beam as a rising wind broke the crests into ragged, white lines. The Prinz was built for this kind of weather, and as she dipped her forecastle until spray burst over the stem or spouted through the hawsepipes she seemed almost contemptuous.

  More signals came in a steady stream. It must be strange for those far-off operators, Hechler had thought many times, to send off their instructions and messages, while the recipient had no way of risking an acknowledgement.

  Operations Division sent one signal about a small British cr uiser squadron leaving Simonstown. Agents there must have started a chain of messages almost as soon as the Tommies had hoisted their anchors.

  It was hardly surprising, he thought. Germany had many friends in South Africa. When the Kaiser had been forced to surrender in the Great W'ar, it was said that black flags had been raised over Johannesburg to show where their true feelings had lain.

  Hechler said, 'Action stations in ten minutes.' He felt his pockets in case he had forgotten anything. He remembered as he had left the sea-cabin how he had seen Inger's familiar picture in the drawer. He had looked at it for the first time without feeling, even bitterness.