by Antony Trew
When the ship took on a list to port and began to sink slowly by the head, the shelling ceased. Down below, water was pouring into the engine-room and McFadden, unable to get a reply from the bridge, stopped the engines and went on deck, taking with him Hans le Roux and Fritz the greaser.
On the starboard side they found the German prisoners with Rohrbach, Mariotta and Di Brett sheltering under the awning deck. Above them there was the crackle of fire, smoke billowed and they were assailed by the acrid smell of burning paintwork. Cleo and Johan were nowhere to be seen. Rohrbach, dazed by the explosion on the bridge and partially blinded, thought they had gone to look for the others. The only prisoner missing was von Falkenhausen. Lindemann said he had been with them after the firing had ceased, but had since disappeared.
McFadden told Hans and the greaser to take the Germans round to the port side to get a lifeboat ready for lowering. After a moment of indecision, he went in search of the rest of the party, making for what was left of the bridge. Amid the smoking wreckage there he saw the remains of the port bridge ladder. Pulling himself up on to the deck outside the chart-house he came upon the body of the Newt. The Englishman lay on his back, spread-eagled, a small smile on his lips as if he were quietly amused at something. Inside the wrecked wheel-house McFadden found the others. Cleo was sitting on the deck near the wheel, with Widmark’s head in her lap. There was an uneven wound across his forehead and his eyes were covered with blood, the face still black with stove-polish. McFadden heard him groan and Cleo, ashen and dry-eyed, stared at Johan. “He’s dying,” she said unsteadily.
McFadden saw that there was more than the face wound: Widmark’s trousers were ripped about the thigh where torn flesh showed from a jagged wound, the blood pumping out, the pool on the deck steadily widening.
“Come on,” the Scot spoke roughly, checking his emotion. “Fire’s coming this way. Boat on the port side’s ready for lowering. We won’t be afloat much longer.”
Johan stooped and gathered Widmark in his arms. McFadden shook his head. “It’s no good, laddie.”
“I’m not leaving him,” the big man said. He moved off through the wreckage towards the starboard bridge ladder, staggering under the weight of his burden. They followed him down to the boat-deck and round to the lifeboat on the port side. With the help of his brother, Johan laid Widmark in the sternsheets. Then he gave Cleo a grubby handkerchief and told her to make a ball of it and try to plug the thigh wound. One of the German sailors came back and reported that he could not find the Freiherr. Hester asked Johan about Mike Kent. He looked away, shaking his head. “He’s had it,” he said gruffly, and the tears ran down her cheeks.
The bows were deeper in the sea and the list to port was increasing. There was the sound of water rushing into the foremost holds, and the sharp hiss of escaping air.
Di Brett was pale. Mariotta, still thick-headed from the drugs, looked round owlishly, and Karl Wedel, his life trickling away, lay in the bows of the lifeboat where the prisoners had put him.
Johan ordered them into the boat. The women went first: Di Brett, Cleo and Hester. Then the Germans: Müller, Schäffer, Fritz the greaser, Heuser and Francke, Kuhn and Lindemann. After them Rohrbach, McFadden and Johan. The German bosun, Kolbe, and Hans le Roux stayed on the boat-deck to man the falls. Johan gave the order to lower away. The falls squeaked through the running blocks and the lifeboat went down slowly, the list keeping it clear of the side. When it touched the water the falls were cast off and Hans and Kolbe slid down into the boat.
Paul Müller, his pale face agitated under his bandaged head, said: “What about the Freiherr?”
Lindemann touched his arm. “Be quiet, Müller,” he spoke gently.
“But we can’t leave him behind,” the steward pleaded.
Di Brett’s eyes were unnaturally bright. “Why not?” she said. “He’s probably dead, anyway.”
On Johan’s orders they bore off and rowed away from the Hagenfels. When they had gone about a hundred yards, they rested on their oars and sat watching her. Clouds of black smoke climbed into the air, twisting and turning, and fire glowed through the portholes in the deck-house amidships. Slowly at first, but with increasing speed, the ship listed over to port and with a vast hissing and sucking began to slide, bows first, beneath the sea. The stern remained, perched at a curious angle, as if unwilling to make the final plunge; then it, too, had gone and where the ship had been there was turbulent water and great bubbles came from the vortex and blew obscenely into the heat of the day. Two life-rafts floated clear, and for some time afterwards gratings and other pieces of wreckage came to the surface. Diesel fuel, dark and oleaginous, formed in pools and spread, its pungent odour hanging in the air.
The survivors were silent, all feelings of race, of friend and enemy, put aside as they watched the ship go. Absorbed in this, they scarcely noticed the aircraft flying low over them, so low that Johan saw the face of the pilot through the perspex windshield. Twice the Walrus circled before it landed on the sea and taxied towards them.
Cleo was sitting in the sternsheets with Widmark’s head in her lap. Her lace handkerchief was over his eyes. It had been white, but now it shone carmine and limpid, glistening in the sun like a jewel. She bent her head over his as if she were listening.
Hope rose in Johan. “How is he?”
Cleo shook her head. “He died—a few minutes ago.” Her voice was flat, toneless. “He tried to say something—then he just died.”
The Walrus was close to them now. The engine stopped. The roof over the cockpit slid back and two heads appeared. One of the men put a small megaphone to his lips. “Any of you speak English?”
There was a pause. Johan stood up in the sternsheets. His lungs were as powerful as the rest of him and he didn’t need a megaphone. “Yes!” he shouted, his deep voice rolling across the water. “We do.” He hesitated. “I suppose you silly bastards know you’ve sunk a British prize and——”
There was a lot more he wanted to say, but he shook his head and stopped.
After all, he thought, what’s the use?
THE END
October, 1965
About the Author
Lieutenant-Commander Widmark, D.S.C, R.N.V.R., had grown to detest the enemy with a pathological hatred. In the Mediterranean he had earned the nickname “The Butcher.” Widmark derided the Geneva Convention, and the pusillanimity that sometimes delayed or tempered action against the enemy for “diplomatic” or “political” reasons. In his view war was a rough and bloody business in which those who stopped at nothing would be victorious—the gentlemen would be defeated.
This exciting story tells of Widmark’s greatest adventure, the organisation and execution of a private cutting-out operation, designed—regardless of any consequences, either bloody or disciplinary—to strike a single telling blow for his own side. Widmark plans to seize and sail and take as a prize from the neutral Portuguese East African port of Lourenço Marques the 8,000 ton German motor vessel Hagenfels.
This is the story of Lieutenant-Commander Widmark and the Hagenfels. The planning, the extraordinary circumstances of the seizure, and the fantastic developments thereafter are presented with all the author’s familiar knowledge of sea-going and with the power of narrative that brought world-wide success to his first novel Two Hours To Darkness.
By the Same Author
TWO HOURS TO DARKNESS
SMOKE ISLAND
TOWARDS THE TAMARIND TREES
THE MOONRAKER MUTINY
KLEBER’S CONVOY
THE ZHUKOV BRIEFING
ULTIMATUM
DEATH OF A SUPERTANKER
THE WHITE SCHOONER
Copyright
© Antony Trew 1966
First published in Great Britain 1966
This ebook edition 2012
ISBN978 0 7090 9653 5 (epub)
ISBN 978 0 7090 9654 2 (mobi)
ISBN 978 0 7090 9655 9 (pdf)
ISBN 978 0 7090 7900 2 (print)
Robert Hale Limited
Clerkenwell House
Clerkenwell Green
London EC1R 0HT
www.halebooks.com
The right of Antony Trew to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988