by Antony Trew
“Chart-house, quick!” Widmark shot off in the darkness, the Newt following. They concentrated on the chart, their minds full of this new threat, their nerves jangling.
“How far ahead of us d’you put her, Newt?”
The Englishman set to work with dividers and wrist-watch, and after a short silence he said: “At her full speed—say, twenty knots—she must have got ten or eleven miles ahead. But she was ordered to reverse her course five minutes ago. Allowing for a bit of argy-bargy on the bridge and time to turn, she’s probably six or seven miles ahead of us now and closing fast. Our combined speeds must be about thirty-six knots.”
“Thank God they haven’t got radar yet.” Widmark concentrated on the chart, looking at the outline of the Ribeiro Shoal, at the tortuous and narrow channel to the north of it, bounded on the landward side by the complex of shoals off the mouth of the Incomati River, its thin neck no more than a few hundred yards across. Quickly he made his decision.
“We’re going inside the Ribeiro Shoal. That’ll put the Bartolomeu Dias on the one side of it and us on the other. It’s five miles long, so even if she sees us she can’t do anything about it. But on a dark night like this they’ll never see a blacked-out ship to the north of the shoal.”
The Newt looked at the chart with renewed intensity, absorbing what he saw. Then his eyebrows went up and he looked at Widmark. “It’s taking one hell of a chance, Steve. There’s not much water there. Only twenty-four feet at mean low water springs, and it’s bloody narrow.”
“You’ll be able to get bearings on the Garapao and Ribeiro lights. We won’t be going it blind, and we know what the set’s doing. Anyway we’ve no option. If we keep to this buoyed channel we’ll run slap into the Bartolomeu Dias. Switch on the echo-sounder, pronto, and let me know if the water shoals below twenty-six feet. We’ve had two hours of ebb, so there’ll be two to three feet on top of the charted depths. There’s not much swell. We’re only drawing about twenty-two feet. But first give me the course to clear the southern tip of the shoal. Make it snappy!”
The Newt knew from Widmark’s voice that there was no point in arguing—the decision had been made. Quickly he laid the parallel rulers on the chart, marked the course line to clear the southern tip of the shoal, rolled the ruler across to the compass rose and read off the course.
“Course o-one-four, Steve.”
“O-one-four.” Widmark’s calm had returned. “Let me have the times to turn and new courses to steer, quick as you can.”
He went into the wheelhouse and gave Rohrbach the new course. The wheel was put over and the Hagenfels’s bow swung to port until she was steaming almost at right angles to her former course. He noted the time—two minutes to midnight.
We won’t be long on this course, he thought, and hoped that the Newt would be quick.
From the starboard side of the bridge he looked beyond the Ribeiro light for the gunboat and there sure enough, rather closer than he’d expected, were the lights of a ship. She was about four miles away and from her steaming lights he could see that she was inward bound. Because she was a neutral the gunboat had not darkened ship, and Widmark was soon able to confirm that it was her and not a neutral merchantman. He knew that on her bridge there would be men scanning the darkness ahead, seeking the large bulk of a ship without lights. But they would, he also knew, be looking ahead along the buoyed channel and not inside the Ribeiro Shoal where no ship of that size ever went, nor ever would go: not even by day, let alone by night.
The Newt called out: “At three minutes past midnight, alter course to o-seven-two, Steve. I’ll give you a shout from the monkey island when the time comes. We must turn when the Ribeiro light bears one-one-o. Echo-sounder’s showing round about twenty-eight, twenty-nine feet.”
The Newt’s cheerfulness was infectious. “Okay!” shouted Widmark, repeating the course. “The gunboat’s about three miles away, bearing green four-five, heading down the channel.”
“Bravo,” shouted the Newt. “Please God, keep us off the shoals!”
He went up to the monkey island and Widmark stood by the wheelhouse door watching the gunboat’s lights and searching the darkness with the Zeiss glasses, in his mind’s eye a picture of the Ribeiro Shoal on one bow and the line of shoals off the Incomati River on the other, expecting at any moment to feel the ship shudder as she grounded.
The main diesels thumped and grumbled as she drove ahead into the night, the wind murmured in the rigging, the seas slopped and gurgled along her sides, and the bows dipped to the ground swell. Astern, the flurried water in the Hagenfels’s wake twisted and bubbled in whorls of phosphorescence.
Chapter Nineteen
The bearing of the gunboat’s lights opened steadily as she came down the channel past the Ribeiro Shoal and when the Newt called from the monkey island, “Steer o-seven-two now,” she was almost astern.
Widmark ordered the wheel to starboard and steadied the ship’s head on 072 degrees; now the Hagenfels and the gunboat were on parallel courses, but past each other and steaming in opposite directions, the distance between them opening at their combined speeds of about thirty-six knots. The passage between the shoals was narrowest at the entrance into which the Hagenfels had just turned, and while Widmark stood at the bridge screen peering ahead through night glasses, ears straining for the sound of breakers where the water shoaled to port, the Newt was in the chart-house, eyes on the stylograph needle scratching the sound-trace on to a strip of moving paper. The water which should have been getting deeper was shoaling and from the chart-house door he called to Widmark: “Steer fifteen degrees to starboard,” then he was back at the trace, staring at it with smarting eyes; the water got deeper, he breathed freely once again, corrected the course to port and steadied the ship’s head on 076 degrees.
Soon the trace showed eight and nine fathoms, and he knew that the channel was widening. At twelve minutes past midnight, course was altered to 037 degrees, and ten minutes later they had cleared the Ribeiro Shoal.
The lights of the gunboat were no longer visible and they estimated she must now be nearing Ponta Garapao. It was almost certain, Widmark reflected, that the gunboat’s captain would assume that the Hagenfels had gone to the south of the buoyed channel where there was ample water and room to manœuvre. It would never occur to a seaman that she had gone to the north.
Ahead of them, running north and south, lay the long line of the Cutfield, Paivo Manso and Domette Shoals, but the Hagenfels had no lack of sea room now. Turning on to a northerly course she steamed parallel to the coast, the shoals to starboard, the land to port. Soon after one o’clock in the morning she was past the Cutfield Shoal and course was altered to seaward. By daylight she would be well out in the shipping lanes—she would then turn on to a southerly course, and should other ships sight her they would conclude that this was a steamer from the north, inward bound for Lourenço Marques. No one, felt Widmark, would credit the captain of the Hagenfels with the stupidity, once he had broken out, of steering a course directly back to the port.
But he chafed at the delay in getting the W/T transmitter to work and at the dilemma in which they had been landed through the absence of any means of communication with the outside world.
In the early hours of the morning the Newt took over the bridge and Widmark went off to do the rounds. His first call was at the wireless cabin where—while insisting that they continue their work—he asked Mike Kent to explain briefly what the trouble was. It was not pleasant hearing.
Apart from the fact that much complex repair work had to be done, the necessary valves to get the transmitter going could not be found; but the young telegraphist was trying to rig up a simple emergency transmitting circuit, though he was far from certain that it would function, and somewhat in the dark as to what frequency it would be on if it did. There was, however, one cheering item of news. He had found an ordinary radio broadcast receiver in the dining saloon and had set it up in the wireless cabin, where he tuned it to 500 kc
s., the wave-band used by merchant shipping. He had found that that channel was carrying most traffic and he had thought they might glean something useful from it. The ship was now out of range of the Port Captain’s radio telephone, so they had no means of telling whether the disappearance of Hagenfels had yet been established by the port authorities.
With a quiet word of encouragement, Widmark left the wireless cabin and went down to the engine-room where he was heartened by his chat with McFadden. The little Scot assured him that everything was under control, including the greaser whom they’d named Fritz because they couldn’t pronounce his real name.
Widmark’s next call was on Johan, whom he found sitting on the coaming of number one hatch, bored and feeling out of things.
“Sorry we had to do this to you, Johan,” he said, “but we’ve no guarantee that we’ve rounded up all the crew. There’s always the danger that an odd Jerry may pitch up in the dark, go down to the chain-locker and let his chums out. Seen or heard anything?”
“Not a sausage,” said Johan. “My problem’s been to keep awake.”
“We’ll issue a round of Benzedrine soon. Did the girls bring you some coffee?”
“Yes, Cleo did. The Greek girl you met at Costa’s. She’s been the only bright spot in the last three hours.”
“At daylight you can pack this up, Johan. Come up to the bridge then and join us.”
“What about those poor sods in the chain-locker? It must be pretty grim down there.”
“We’ll see about that once it’s daylight.” Widmark was unsympathetic. “Won’t do them any harm to stay there for a bit.”
Leaving Johan, he went up to the Captain’s cabin. As he opened the door he heard women laughing. That’s better, he thought. They stopped talking when he came in—Cleo and Di Brett.
He looked at Di Brett. “Where’s Mariotta?”
She inclined her head towards the captain’s sleeping cabin. “In there. She’s drugged. Somebody must have put something in her food or drink. She can’t wake up.”
Widmark smiled. “Poor girl. Too bad. It was intended for her hosts. She’ll wake up in due course.”
There was a long silence, Cleo looking away from him, Di Brett doing her lips. Stopping for a moment, she watched him, lipstick in hand, her head on one side.
“You look too awful with a black face, Stephen. Why don’t you clean that muck off?”
“It’s quite a business. It’ll have to wait.” He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, looking at Cleo. “I just want to say this. I’m sorry we had to involve you girls. But there’s a war on and we have to do all sorts of things we don’t like. Within twenty-four hours we expect to land you safely in Durban. What happens to you then will be for the naval authorities to decide, but as three of you are on the Allied side and Mariotta’s a neutral, you’ll come to no harm.”
“D’you think it was fair? To get us mixed up in this?” Di Brett’s eyebrows arched above cold, calculating eyes.
“We didn’t invite you on board, Di. The Germans did. You may not know it, but they planned to break out to-night. The party was simply cover. So that the shore authorities wouldn’t know what was on the go. Our job was to nip their plan in the bud.”
The subjective part of Widmark’s mind observed dryly with what fluency he was putting this across; but it’s all in a good cause, he reflected. The explanation had been devised when he’d made the decision to launch the operation on the night of the party, and each of his men was familiar with it.
The story was thin in places, he knew, but it would be their word against any who chose to contest it and the key witnesses, the German prisoners, would be available only to the British.
Di Brett’s face gave no indication of her thoughts; she was acutely aware that if she were to say what she knew, she would incriminate herself. Cleo was beginning to soften for she believed Widmark, and though outwardly she maintained her aloofness her heart warmed to him as he spoke. Odd though he looked with his grimy face, she was excited by his closeness and felt once again the strange attraction of that night at Costa’s.
Sitting on the edge of the desk, one knee over the other, Widmark ran his fingers through his tousled hair, took out his cigarette case and lit a cigarette. “What’s more,” he went on, blowing the smoke away from them, “this ship was taken out of Lourenço Marques by Lindemann and his crew. Not by us.” His eyes narrowed as he watched them.
Di Brett laughed. “You’re an awful liar, Stephen! The last we saw of poor Lindemann and his officers they were being marched away under the guns of your men.”
Cleo eyed him curiously, wondering what he would say to that. But he didn’t bat an eyelid. “Out on deck—in the dark—we were overpowered by other members of the crew. They locked us up and took the ship to sea. Later on, Johan, who’d hidden in a lifeboat, released us and we took charge again. Now the Germans are our prisoners. In other words, we captured this ship on the high seas.”
“It’s a fascinating story, Stephen.” Di Brett smiled. “Make a wonderful film.”
“Wouldn’t it?” he agreed. “But it happens to be true. You know—truth’s stranger than fiction sort of thing.”
Di Brett’s laugh was thin, but he was unconcerned and puffed away at the cigarette.
Cleo was thinking, well it could be true. Stephen wouldn’t lie, and then because she wasn’t really quite sure she consoled herself with the thought that there was a war on. Anyway, she decided, I’ll back his story if it comes to the pinch.
“Another thing,” said Widmark, eyeing the end of his cigarette and feeling rather pleased with himself because what he was about to say was partly true.
“We’re not an official naval party. We were in Lourenço Marques on leave, enjoying ourselves quite innocently, when we learnt from the local grape-vine that the Germans were planning a break out for the Hagenfels. So we thought we’d combine business with pleasure and spike their guns as a sort of private lark.”
Di Brett held out her hand. “Cigarette, please. Your manners aren’t what they used to be, Stephen.”
He gave her the cigarette case. “Sorry. It’s been a busy night and I’m tired. You, Cleo?”
She shook her head. “I don’t, thanks.” But she smiled and he realised he was forgiven. His spirits rose, “I must go back to the bridge.” He stood up. “See you later.”
Cleo followed him into the alleyway. “Stephen,” she called.
He turned round. “Hallo, Cleo. What’s up?”
“Stephen——” she hesitated. “Is everything going to be all right?”
He moved close to her, touching her cheek with his hand. “Yes. Everything’s going to be all right. And when we get to Durban you and I are going to dance again.”
She put her hand on his. “I’m so glad.”
Widmark wanted to kiss her then, but he felt he couldn’t with all that stuff on his face. He patted her shoulder. “I know a marvellous place. The Silver Slipper. We’ll go there on Saturday night. Is that a date?”
“I’ve got no clothes,” she said. “But it’s a date.”
At three o’clock that morning Widmark issued Benzedrine tablets to the men—and to Hester Smit, on the insistence of Mike Kent.
He had worked like a beaver in the wireless cabin, sometimes explaining to Hester what he was trying to do but mostly in silence; at moments, when he felt he was making progress, his spirits rose; at others, when he tested some newly fixed component and found it was not functioning, they sank. While he worked, his mind was a jumble of thoughts; snatches of involved philosophical argument mixed with scraps from textbooks on the theory of electronics, mixed again with mental pictures of his room at home, his books, his mother, and shadowy glimpses of a girl at university with whom he’d embarked on a slightly erotic friendship just before the war, whereafter they’d gone their separate ways.
Then, quite inconsequentially, he would find himself thinking of Austin Robert’s bird book, of the Drakensberg, of the Lammergeie
r and the Nerina Trogon, and he would have to discipline himself and think: Keep your mind on the job, it requires all your concentration.
Down in the captain’s cabin Di Brett and Cleo were resting, their bodies exhausted but their minds active. Cleo lay on one settee in the day-cabin and Di Brett on the other; both of them silent, the swish of electric fans, the occasional creaking of the superstructure, and the sound of the sea outside, the only accompaniment to their thoughts.
On the bridge, Rohrbach was at the wheel, and the Newt was in the chart-house busy with the ship’s navigational tables and nautical almanac, getting ready for the star sights he planned to take at dawn. They were not essential so soon after leaving harbour, but it kept him occupied and an early morning position might be useful. Widmark was pacing the bridge, alert, watchful, evaluating the dangers threatening the Hagenfels, above all those from submarines; they were not so much to be feared now—the night was too dark—but once daylight came the risk would be a real one, though he hoped the closeness of the coast would give them some protection. At dawn the Hagenfels would start zigzagging and with the ship steaming at fifteen knots, and U-boats keeping down because of the danger of air patrols, she should not be too easy a target. But if only the W/T transmitter had been serviceable he would long since have arranged for air cover and a surface escort at daylight.
No use bellyaching about that, he thought. Nobody could be trying harder than Mike, and if anything could be done he’d do it. For the rest his mind was occupied with a patchwork of thoughts: pictures of Cleo and a future together with her, confused with nagging snatches of imagined dialogue and tortuous explanation when he told the Chief of Staff why he had embarked on the operation after the Commander-in-Chief’s categorical “No.” The answers had long been prepared and he was banking upon the knowledge that a successful operation, even if orders had been disobeyed, was to some extent its own explanation. But he was troubled by feelings of doubt and insecurity.