iron pirate

by Unknown Author

  Gudegast shrugged. 'Home then, sir.'

  'Yes. But we'll not reach Germany again without a fight.'

  Theil entered the bridge and eyed them grimly. 'I have done my rounds, sir.'

  Hechler nodded. 'Tell me the worst, Viktor.'

  Theil looked at the broken screen. He had heard the blinded man screaming before he had been silenced by Stroheim's staff.

  One of my petty officers, Hammer, is trapped in the empty, ready-use room, sir. The mechanism was broken in the explosion.'

  Gudegast said, 'But he should not have been in there surely?'

  He saw the petty officer in his mind, a mild man, yet one who always seemed to be against authority in his mad desire to keep stocks of glass in any vacant space.

  Hechler said, 'I have the key in my safe, Viktor.'

  Theil faced him. 'Yes. And the admiral had the other. I am fully aware of the security arrangements in this ship. I -' He seemed to check himself with a real effort.

  'Well, he's trapped inside. With the admiral's boxes.'

  It would have to be solved, but against what had happened it seemed trivial.

  He would go round the ship as soon as the Arado had been hoisted inboard. With more and more enemy ships being homed either towards the broken convoy or the silent radio station, they would need all their eyes to avoid discovery.

  'See what you can do.' Hechler looked at each of them in turn. 'And thank you.'

  He felt utterly drained. Yet he must inspect the immobilised turret, see his heads of department, and bury their dead.

  He thought of the girl's face so close to his own, the need to see her. It might be the last time.

  He thought too of the unknown hand on the transmitter key, and the captain of the old ocean liner as she had charged to the attack. His men could and would fight like that. He pictured Leitner's insane fury and felt a sudden anxiety.

  The legend and the luck were no longer enough.

  Chapter Eighteen

  No Hiding Place

  Ac ting Commodore Hemrose moved restlessly to the starboard side of the Wiltshire's bridge and fastened his duffle coat more lightly. The rain was getting heavier, he thought irritably. They could do without it.

  He peered through a clearview screen and watched the long arrowhead of the cruiser's forecastle begin to shine through the darkness. Dawn soon. He felt like rubbing his hands but it was loo wet for that. Since leaving Simonstown the three ships had maintained almost their full speed, and each had been closed up at action stations since midnight. Exciting, exhilarating, it was much more than either, Hemrose thought. Gone was the boredom and the nagging suspicion that the German raider was cocking a snook at them. For two days they had pounded through the heavy ocean swell, gun crews exercising without all I he usual moans. This time it was in earnest.

  Hemrose could picture his ships clearly despite the darkness. The Rhodesia was half a mile astern, while the light cruiser Pallas was way ahead in the van. If the German's radar was as good as the experts had implied, it was better to have the smallest ship in the lead. The Prinz Luitpold was a powerful and formidable opponent, but they would dart in to close the range, singly, while the others maintained covering fire to halve the enemy's resources. Hemrose thought of their old Walrus flying boat, the Shagbat as it was affectionately known in the navy. One engine, a pusher at that, with a ridiculous maximum speed of 130 odd miles per hour. But it only needed one sighting report, and the ancient Walrus could do that just as efficiently as any first-rate bomber.

  Flemrose glanced at his bridge staff. The first lieutenant and officer-of-the-watch, the navigating officer, two junior subbies, and the usual handful of experts, signalmen and the like. As good a ship's company as you could find anywhere, he decided.

  He licked his lips and tasted that last mug of cocoa, pusser's kye. It had been laced with rum, his chief steward had seen to that. Just the thing to meet the dawn.

  He heard the OOW answering one of the voice-pipes, then turned as he said, 'W/T office. Chief telegraphist requests permission to come up, sir.'

  ‘What? Hemrose dug his hands into his damp pockets. 'Oh, very well.'

  The chief telegraphist was a proper old sweat. Not the kind to make fruitless requests when at any moment they might make contact with the enemy.

  The man arrived on the bridge and paused only to nod to his messmate, the Chief Yeoman of Signals.

  'What is it?'

  The man had a signal pad in his hand but did not seem to need it.

  He said, 'From Admiralty, sir, repeated Rear-Admiral commanding Force M.' He swallowed hard. 'The signal from St Jorge was a fake, sir. The northbound tanker convoy is under attack by the raider. HMS Tasmania is engaging.'

  Some of the others had heard what the chief petty officer had said and were watching Hemrose, waiting for him to explode. Hemrose was surprised that he should feel so calm. And yet he had never expected this to happen. Not in a thousand years.

  The chief telegraphist added, Also, there was one further transmission from that radio station, sir. Someone there was apparently trying to warn us.'

  Hemrose looked up sharply as the first lieutenant murmured, 'Brave bastard!'

  'Get the commander up here.' He had to think, but all he could see was the convoy, the shells ploughing amongst those heavily laden oil tankers. 'Call up the squadron. Remain on course. Reduce to cruising speed.' He hated to add, 'Fall out action stations. I'll speak to our people presently.'

  'More kye, sir.' His chief steward had appeared by his side.

  Thanks.' He tried to grin, but his face felt rigid. 'I bloody need it.'

  Godson clattered up the ladder and exclaimed, 'I just heard, sir. Bad show.'

  Is that what you really think? Aloud Hemrose said, 'We'll be getting our marching orders soon, hence the signal repeated to Force M.'

  Godson remained silent. Force M was one of the fleet's powerful independent groups, a battle-cruiser, a big carrier, with all the support and escorts they needed. It would be the end of Hemrose's little squadron. He would become a small fish in a much grander pool. Godson hated himself for being pleased about it. But it would be a whole lot safer.

  The navigating officer murmured, 'When it's convenient, sir -' He hesitated as Hemrose turned towards him.

  Hemrose said, 'We shall maintain this course for the moment, Pilot

  Godson offered, 'Someone will have to lie off St Jorge and pick up the Germans if there are any.’

  Hemrose said harshly, 'Well, not me. Leave that to some errand-boy!'

  His sudden anger seemed to tire him. He said, 'I shall be in my sea-cabin. Call me if -' He did not finish it.

  Alone in his cabin abaft the bridge he lay fully clothed, staring into the darkness.

  When the telephone rang he snatched it up and snapped, Well?'

  It was Godson. 'Signal from Admiralty, sir.' He cleared his throat as he always did when he was about to face something bad. The Armed Merchant Cruiser Tasmania has been sunk. One escort reported seeing a shell-burst on the raider. Most of the convoy has survived. We are to await further instructions.'

  Hemrose slumped down again. Poor old Tasmania. It must have been the last thing her captain had expected too. He clenched his fists with sudden despair and anger. What was it he had learned when he had been a cadet at Dartmouth? God and the Navy we adore, when danger threatens but not before. How bloody true it had been proved over and over again in this war. Pleasure boats and paddle steamers used for mine-sweeping, Great War destroyers fighting the Atlantic and anything the krauts could fling their way. And it would be the same in any future conflict. Spend nothing, but expect a bloody miracle, that was John Citizen's battle cry.

  He heaved himself up and stared at the luminous clock. What was the matter with him? Was he so overwhelmed by the German's trick that he had missed something so obvious? No ship as good as Prinz Luitpold would be deterred by the second signal from St Jorge. Not at that stage, with helpless tankers falling to her broadsid
es. The old AMC had scored one hit, they said. Well, it might only take one. It must have been bad enough to make Hechler break off the action.

  He seized the telephone and heard the OOW reply, 'Bridge, sir?'

  'Get me the commander.'

  Godson sounded alarmed. 'Something wrong, sir?'

  ‘Tasmania hit the raider, Toby. The Prinz Luitpold must be in trouble.'

  Godson stammered, 'One shell, sir - well, that is, we don't know

  'Shut up and listen. I want the attack team mustered in the chart room in ten minutes.'

  There was no comment and he snapped, 'Are you still there?'

  Godson replied weakly, 'Are you going after the raider again, sir?'

  Hemrose touched his face. He would shave, and meet his little team looking refreshed and confident.

  He said, 'We needed a bit of luck, Toby. That poor, clapped-out AMC may have given us just that.'

  Godson persisted, The Admiralty will probably decline to -'

  'Don't be such a bloody old woman.' He slammed down the phone.

  It was so obvious he wanted to shout it at the top of his voice. The US submarine had been damaged, but had fired at the raider because her skipper had never seen such a target. But his torpedoes must have hit something else, hence the remains of German corpses and a massive oil-slick. The so-called experts had acted like a ship's lookout who saw only what he expected to see. It must have been another submarine. He wanted to laugh, when he recalled it was the poor chaplain who had first put the doubts about the raider's fuel supply in his mind.

  It had to be that. But just because it had never been done before, nobody, not even Duffield's back-room boys had even suspected it.

  God, the enemy must have been planning all this for months, and everything, even the RAF's recce reports over the Norwegian fjords, had been fooled by one ruse after another.

  The door opened. 'I've brought you your shavin' gear, sir.' The steward showed his teeth.' Ad afeelin' you might be askin' for it.'

  Hemrose stared at himself in the mirror. He could still be wrong. There was nothing really solid to go on. But it was all he had. They would go right through every report and signal. If they found nothing they would do it all over again until they did.

  Nobody had really considered submarines before. The Admiralty and intelligence sources had concentrated on checking lists of so-called neutrals, especially those in South American ports, where a supply ship might have been waiting for a rendezvous.

  Later in the chart-room Hemrose explained his thoughts on the raider's performance.

  'Hechler had that convoy on a plate. He'd knocked out the escort, and picked off the first tankers like fish in a barrel. But for the old AMC he would have polished off the whole boiling lot.'

  The young navigating officer said, 'If he's damaged, he'll also need fuel.'

  Hemrose nodded. 'Good thinking. When his bunkers are topped up he'll make for safe waters again - my guess is Norway.' He added grudgingly, 'Even with the Home Fleet and Force M on the alert he's the sort of captain who might just pull it off. If he sails safely into port after cutting our blockade in both directions he would do far more good for German morale at home than by wiping out that convoy.'

  Godson said, 'The Germans have been using the big supply submarines in the South Atlantic for two years, I believe.'

  Hemrose waited silently, seeing his hazy ideas forming into a possibility on their faces.

  The first lieutenant said, 'They work to a grid system, don't they?'

  Hemrose smiled. 'Check all the U-boat reports in that area, ours and the Yanks.'

  Hemrose rocked back on his heels. He was already heading into disaster, so where might this additional risk take him?

  'Then make a signal to Pallas and Rhodesia. I'd like to see the captains before we begin.'

  Godson wilted under his stare but asked, 'And Admiralty, sir?'

  'Balls to their lordships, Toby! I was given this job and I intend to see it through!' He glanced at the chaplain. 'And thanks to our warlike padre here, I think we may be on the home stretch!'

  Hemrose walked out into the daylight and lifted his face to the rain.

  It was hard to accept that within two hours he had risen from despair to optimism.

  As he passed the forward funnel he saw the ship's crest bolted to a catwalk. Beneath it was her motto in Latin. Hemrose's red face split into a grin so that two Oerlikon gunners peered down with astonishment to watch him.

  Translated, their motto was Count your blessings.

  It was not much, but it was a start.

  Leitner looked up from his littered desk and eyed Hechler for several seconds.

  'You wish to see me?'

  Hechler nodded. He wondered how Leitner could leave the upper bridge to spend time in his spacious quarters. The cabin was unusually chaotic, with clothes strewn about, and a lifejacket hanging on the door.

  Hechler said, 'We have just buried the men who were killed, sir.'

  Leitner pouted. 'Yes. I felt the ship slow down.' Some of the old edge returned to his tone. 'Not that she's exactly a greyhound of the ocean at the moment!'

  'The engine-room expects the pumps will all be working at full pressure soon. ' They had said that yesterday, but this time Stuck seemed quite confident. 'It's B turret that worries me.'

  You? WorryT Leitner put down his pen and regarded him calmly. 'After their performance with the convoy I'd have thought the whole gunnery team should be worried!'

  It was pointless to argue, to explain that the single shell from the Tasmania had been a fluke shot. Anyway, Leitner seemed so preoccupied he would only have challenged that too.

  Hechler said, 'The rendezvous with the supply-boat, sir. I am having second thoughts. At this reduced speed we will meet the milch-cow on her final day in the prescribed grid. After that we may not find the time to refuel before we turn for home.'

  'I had considered that, Dieter.' The sudden use of his name was also unexpected. 'But we still stick to our plans. I intend to transfer the camera team to the submarine. They can make their own arrangements when she reaches Germany.' He sounded vague, almost disinterested.

  'And the woman pilot?'

  Leitner gave a small smile. 'Ah, yes. The lovely Erika. I am afraid she has not earned her release just yet.' He dragged a chart from beneath a pile of papers. 'The rendezvous is here, right?'

  Hechler bent over the desk. Why go over it again? All he could see were the lines of flag-covered bodies, the rain sheeting down while he had read the burial service. Then the signal to the bridge to reduce speed, the last volley of shots, and the sea-men rolling up the empty flags for the next time. Faces and groups lingered in his mind, like little cameos of war itself. A young seaman wiping his eyes with his sleeve and trying not to show his grief at the loss of a friend. The camera crew filming the funeral, a petty officer staring at them, his eyes filled with hatred and disgust. Leitner should have been there. It was the least he could do. And he had seen the girl too, her coat collar turned up as she had gripped a stanchion below two manned anti-aircraft guns and watched him, listening to his words as he had saluted, and the pathetic bundles had splashed over the side.

  Hechler had been kept busy with hardly a break. Now, in the sealed cabin it dosed in like a blanket. He was dog-tired at a time when he needed to be at full alert.

  Somewhere overhead one of the Arados was testing its engine.

  They were off the shipping lanes, and as far as Bauer's telegraphists had been able to determine, all enemy forces had been directed either to the convoy or further north. OKM Operations Division had been silent. It was as if the Prinz Luitpold had already been written off as a casualty, left to her own resources.

  Hechler closed his fingers. One more cargo of fuel and he would be able to assess their immediate future. If they avoided the enemy Kroll and his artificers would repair the turret's training mechanism. Otherwise all their main defences would be down aft.

  Leitner did not lo
ok up from the chart, and some of his sleek hair fell forward like a loose quill. It was so unlike him that Hechler wondered if the last engagement had broken his faith.

  Leitner was saying, 'Now about my boxes, hmm?'

  Hechler thought of the petty officer who was still trapped. The damage control section had told him that the door was buckled, and it would have to be cut away with torches. There was an air vent, so the luckless Hammer was in no danger. Yet.

  'They are working on the door, sir.'

  Leitner did not seem to. hear. That man had a key. He must have stolen it or made it. He is a thief, a menace to this ship, a traitor. I intend that he shall stand trial as soon as he is freed.' He raised his eyes suddenly. I want that door open.' His eyes hardened. 'It can be done, yes or no? He swung round. 'What now?'

  Theil stood in the entrance, his cap dripping with rain.

  'The door won't move, sir. The engine-room is supplying some heavier cutting gear

  Leitner screamed at him, 'Don't come here with your snivelling excuses! I want the door forced open immediately! Blow it down with a limited explosion!'

  Hechler stepped between them. 'It could kill Hammer, sir. In such a confined space -'

  Leitner glared at him wildly. 'It will save him from the firing squad! He was spying on me, and he's not the only one! Must I repeat everything? Blow it open!'

  Theil looked at Hechler, his face pleading. 'He's one of my men!'

  Leitner was breathing hard. 'I have no doubt of that!'

  Theil faced him. 'What exactly do you mean, sir?'

  Leitner stared at him, astonished. 'Are you questioning me or my orders?'

  Hechler snapped, 'I would like to remind both of you that we are in some danger.' To Theil he added, 'Wait outside. I'll deal with this matter.' As the door closed he said, How dare you accuse my officers of plotting against you?' He could not stop himself. 'You are supposed to offer leadership to this ship's company, not act like some sort of god!'

  Leitner's jaw hung open. It was as if Hechler had struck him, or screamed some terrible curse.