by Alan Evans
Buckley answered, “I’m proud of him.”
Smith nodded slowly, “I’ll bet he’s proud of you, too.” Then he asked, “Where is he? Does he know now?”
“I wrote to him. He’s in Ajax, off the coast of South America. There’s a chance you could meet him.”
Whitby’s engines began slowly turning as she eased away from the quayside, bound for Montevideo.
*
When the mail was distributed aboard the cruiser Ajax Robert Hurst collected his letter and opened it with a smile. He recognised that stiff copperplate hand. But after reading the first paragraph he climbed from the crowded mess to the deck and found a secluded place aft of the funnel and just forward of the aircraft on its catapult. There, for a few minutes, he could escape from watching eyes, talk, his fellow men. It was a place to hide where his hurt would not show.
He unfolded the letter again, no longer smiling. He read it through from its opening sentence: “I have to tell you I have lied to you all these years …” Then he stared at the paper blankly as its message sank in. He realised he had lost the only father he had ever known. Buckley had been provider, dispenser of justice, confidant, friend. Loved. Now he had a new one, a stranger and a captain in the Royal Navy, virtually a being from another planet. One of the gods he saw high above him on the bridge. The embodiment of his ambition, for that it had been: to become a naval captain. ‘Had been’ because now he felt revulsion. This captain had left his mother to give birth and then die.
He crumpled the letter in his fist and threw it across the deck, but at once he ran after it, snatched it up and smoothed out the creased sheets.
Donovan, striding by, called, “What’s up, Professor? Has she found another feller back home?” He said it with good humour and some sympathy because that kind of letter arrived when men were overseas for years. And the men themselves were no angels. That was life.
But Hurst tucked the letter away in his jumper, said flatly, “Go to hell.” And walked away.
Donovan stared after him, good humour evaporated. He was running out of patience with Hurst.
*
Hannah Fitzsimmons staggered and clutched at the rail as the cross-Channel packet pitched and rolled. But she shook her head so her hair flew out on the wind and turned her face into the salt spray. Sarah clung on beside her and they laughed together. The white cliffs of England were a blurred, low grey wall standing out of the sea. Hannah said, “With luck you’ll see him soon.”
Sarah nodded, “I’m looking forward to that — but I’m nervous. I’ve never met him.” She could talk about her father now; she and Hannah had been through so much together, the flight from Poland and then the slow journey through Romania and across Europe.
Early in those travels Sarah had said, “I don’t know where he’ll be. Mother once mentioned a house in Norfolk but I don’t know just where.”
Hannah had replied, “You could try his flat. He has one in London.” Sarah had remained silent but her face spoke for her and Hannah said drily, “Don’t look at me like that, darling, I only know the address.”
Sarah had turned red and muttered, “Sorry.”
But Hannah thought now that Sarah might still suspect her of being a designing female and in pursuit of Smith. Which was totally untrue?
When the packet docked they took the train to London, travelling third class at Sarah’s insistence; her money was running low. But Hannah booked them both in at the Ritz: “After the last few weeks I deserve this pampering. You can pay me later. Besides, you might only be here for one night.” Then she called a cab and gave the address of Smith’s flat.
It was empty. A neighbour, in the black jacket and striped trousers of the civil servant and returning from his office, told them, “I heard it was being let but there have been no takers. People are moving out of London because of the bombing.”
Out in the street again Hannah said, “Don’t worry. We’ll try the Admiralty. They’ll know where he is.”
Next day they drove to the Admiralty where Sarah proved her identity with her passport and birth certificate. She was told that Captain Smith had sailed for Montevideo only the day before and: “He may be there for some time, possibly years. You could write to him at the office of the Naval Attaché.”
No. She had said she would speak to him face to face and that had not changed. She wanted to meet him now, needed him now. She only prayed he would want her. Sarah shook her head.
They were silent in the cab going back to the Ritz, both thinking. And when they arrived at the hotel Hannah held onto the cab and told Sarah, “You grab a cup of coffee, honey. I have to see a man about work and my next assignment.”
She drove off in the cab but Sarah did not go for coffee. Her quibbling over travelling first class had not been a mean streak surfacing; her funds were not just low but almost gone. Her flight across Europe had left her shabby but there was no money for new clothes. Poverty did not frighten her because she had never been poor and was confident she could earn her living. But that was not enough.
Her hand unconsciously went to her throat and she fingered the plain cord she wore like a necklace. She had brought little jewellery out of Germany but it was valuable. She had not worn it since the early days in Poland because display would have been an invitation to thieves. There were five rings in a little soft, silken bag hanging between her breasts.
Sarah walked across to the desk and asked the clerk there, “Can you tell me how to get to Hatton Garden and Montevideo, please?”
He did not blink. “Hatton Garden for the jewellers, Miss? And would that be the Montevideo in South America — Uruguay?”
Meanwhile Hannah was leaning over her editor’s desk, pleading and reasoning with him, still patient after a succession of head-shaking refusals from him. “Look, Joe, I have a hunch something could break in South America.” She kept her fingers crossed under the desk. “I was right about Poland, wasn’t I?”
Joe agreed but shook his head, “Everybody was right about Poland, everybody who could read the writing on the wall.”
“Maybe, but I get these hunches and they come good.”
“Yeah? So what about Spain — that hunch? That was good? You damn near got shot by a firing-squad.”
“I sent some good stories out of Spain.”
“All right, but—”
“And I want to go. I’m due a vacation after this last year and I’m going.”
Joe spread his hands, “So now you tell me? You waste a half-hour of my time asking and now you tell me you’re going anyway.” But he recognised the determination in that flat statement and was silent for a time, then: “OK. You did a hell of a fine job in Spain and Poland, so take the time off, with pay. Have a vacation. But I’m not picking up the check for this trip without you turning in a story. Till then the expenses are on you. So when are you going?”
“Just as soon as I can fix it up.” Hannah pulled his telephone across the desk towards her and asked, “All right if I make a call or two?”
Joe pointed a thick finger at her, “Not to South America.”
Hannah grinned at him now that the battle, if not total victory, was won. “No, just Cook’s and some shippers.”
She found Sarah in the bar at the Ritz and the girl called a waiter and ordered a dry Martini: “A large one, please.”
Hannah asked, “Are we celebrating?”
Sarah nodded, “There’s a French ship called the Formose that sails from Le Havre on Saturday.”
Hannah nodded in her turn, “Calling at Casablanca, Rio and Santos on the way to Montevideo. I know. I’ve booked us a cabin. Now we have to go to the office to confirm it.”
Sarah said, “I’ve got the money to pay my share.”
Hannah saw the cord had gone from around Sarah’s throat but her dress, and the coat thrown over the back of a chair, were well worn articles that had served her these last months on the road. Hannah wondered if Sarah’s jewels had raised just enough for her fare? Or was she
keeping a bit by in case she did not find her father in Montevideo? But however …
The Martini came and Hannah lifted her glass to the girl, “OK, kid, let’s go. Montevideo, here we come!”
*
Some three weeks later, at the beginning of December, the cruiser Ajax called at the Falkland Islands and Robert Hurst went ashore in the liberty boat. So did Donovan. They met, not by arrangement but mischance, in the back yard of a pub in Port Stanley after the sun had gone down. Both of them were sober but a stone turned under Donovan’s foot as he made to pass Hurst. He staggered and threw out a hand to grab at the other figure seen dimly in the dusk. Hurst thought he saw a punch aimed at his head, ducked and countered. His own blow took Donovan on the side of the jaw and turned the big man’s stagger into a fall.
For a split-second Donovan did not believe it but then he bounced to his feet. To his mind Hurst had finally added injury to insult and now was the time for accounting. There was a flurry of flying fists and Hurst was laid on his back. Donovan was cool now, anger under control, boxing efficiently, measuring Hurst for the knockout, waiting for him.
He moved in as Hurst got his legs under him and his hands up. Then a man stepped between them, his arms spread wide to plant a hand on the chest of each. He was thin, white-haired and none too steady on his feet but he held them apart and said thickly, “Give over! One o’ you will be the death of the other.”
They stood back, afraid of hurting him, and he almost fell without their support. They moved in together to hold him under the arms and he said, ‘Think I’ve had enough. For now. Here, you take me home and I’ll stand the pair o’ you a drink.”
Hurst’s eyes met those of Donovan over the old man’s head and Donovan mouthed, “Daft old bastard!” Hurst agreed, but they half-carried him between them as he directed: “Along here … turn down here … there we are.” ‘There’ was an open boat lying at the quayside. They got him down the ladder and into the sternsheets where he fumbled at the engine until it fired, when he took the tiller and steered the boat out of the harbour. The two young men sat at opposite ends of a thwart just forward of the engine. As they met the sea Donovan demanded, half amused, half appalled, “Here! Where the hell are you taking us?”
“Home. Stand the pair o’ you a drink. Said I would.” He leaned on the tiller to turn the boat’s head and set it running along the coast.
Donovan sucked at grazed knuckles and Hurst felt tenderly at his face. Donovan said, remembering with returning resentment, “Do you lash out at everybody some nights? As if it was full moon?”
Hurst stared at him, “What do you mean? You threw one at me.”
“Like hell I did!” Donovan pointed a finger, “I trod on a rock and keeled over, put out a hand to save myself and you laid into me!”
“Because I thought …”
Donovan said, “Ah!” Then: “But while we’re at it, you’ve been a bit bloody-minded lately, Professor. Like when you threw your letter away, I cracked some joke and you gave me the hard word.”
Hurst was quiet a moment, then: “Sorry. I’d had some bad news. And I don’t like being called Professor.”
Donovan said again, “Ah! Well, you’re always reading or writing, Profess—” He broke off there as he caught Hurst’s eye, then grinned and said, “All right.” He nodded at the old man in the stern, “D’ye think he will stand us a drink?”
He did. When he finally ran the boat into the shore and led the way up to his cottage they found it warm and comfortable. He produced a bottle of whisky and filled their glasses then got out his fiddle and played for them. They talked, laughed and sang, separately and sometimes all three of them together.
“Bloody hell!” said Donovan when it was time for them to return to their ship. The wind had got up and was whipping white streamers of foam from the tops of the big green waves rolling in to crash on the beach. There was no question of putting off in the boat to run back along the coast to Port Stanley nor of walking across the pathless open country. The old man put them up for the night and by the morning the wind had moderated and he took them back in the boat, complaining about his head all the way. They found Ajax had sailed without them.
*
“Fly off the seaplane!” Gustav Moehle, captain of Brandenburg, sat in his high chair on the bridge as dawn broke and the sun rose. The cruiser was steaming off the coast of West Africa. The Arado seaplane was launched from the catapult amidships and Kurt Larsen watched it fly off, first dipping towards the sea as it left the catapult then lifting, climbing away. Its pilot was under orders to search for Allied shipping in the vicinity and then report back by wireless the positions and courses of any found. It was a tactic tried and proved; Brandenburg had sunk five ships since she started her raiding cruise two months before.
The tactic worked again. An hour later the Arado’s pilot reported a ship to the westward and Moehle grinned. He ordered the change of course and Brandenburg increased speed to intercept. Kurt Larsen, like many another officer, searched for the ship using a pair of binoculars but it was the big rangefinder high on the cruiser’s control top that first picked up the merchantman at a distance of twenty miles.
That gap closed only slowly because it was a stern chase, if it could be called a chase at all because the tramp steamer was not running away, unaware she was being pursued. She had no reason to suspect the ship closing her from astern was an enemy. Moehle traded on this when the range steadily shortened by ordering his signal yeoman: “Hoist the French tricolour!” Using this ruse he was alongside and close enough to read the name on the tramp’s bow and stern before her crew realised their danger.
There was danger because Moehle ordered the signal to be hoisted calling on the SS Greenleaf to stop and not to attempt to use her wireless. Her captain obeyed the first instruction but not the second. When Brandenburg’s wireless officers heard the merchantman sending they jammed her signal and reported it to Moehle on the bridge. He ordered, “Open fire!”
The 40mm guns swept the superstructure of the tramp and silenced the wireless. Men on the bridge and in the wireless office were killed in the process but Moehle had no choice and looked on grim-faced. He dared not let the Greenleaf broadcast his position. He was well aware that the Royal Navy was hunting over the seas of the world for raiders like his ship and Graf Spee.
Kurt Larsen commanded the boarding party of two junior officers and thirty men. He was first to climb the ladder hanging against the black-painted, rust-scaled side of Greenleaf. Once aboard he went straight to her bridge and her captain while the rest of his party scattered about the ship. Some went to the wireless office, some to the cabins, in particular that of the captain to hunt for papers. Others stripped the covers from the holds to find out what cargo they held. They worked quickly and efficiently with hardly an order from Kurt. They had all done this before.
As Larsen stepped onto the bridge Greenleaf’s captain stood in his way. He was a man in his late sixties but still erect and neat in a white duck uniform, though there were dark stains on the front of the jacket. He had grey eyes set in nests of wrinkles as if he was a man who smiled a lot, but he was not smiling now and the grey eyes were hard. His voice shook with anger and outrage as he accused Kurt Larsen: “You’ve murdered my second mate and my wireless officer!”
Kurt saw that the dark stains were blood and a dead man lay below the screen at the front of the bridge. He snapped a hand to his cap in salute. While he saw the need to enforce Moehle’s orders he could feel no pride in this action. Perhaps that showed when he said, “I am sorry, but we could not allow you to send a warning signal.”
“In case the Navy catches you?” The merchant skipper picked up his cap from a chart table at the back of the bridge and clapped it on his head. He glared at Kurt and told him, “You can try to survive by murder but somebody will get off a signal and then the Navy will hunt you down!” He turned and climbed slowly down the ladder from the bridge. The boat was waiting at the ship’s side to take hi
m across to Brandenburg.
Kurt Larsen tried to shrug off the warning, collected his boarding party, confirmed that all the Greenleaf’s crew were down in the boats and the dead taken to Brandenburg for burial with respect. Then he saw the scuttling charges set and he went down to his boat with the last of his men. The pinnace growled back to the cruiser and he sat in the stern-sheets with his head turned on his shoulder. As they were coming alongside Brandenburg he heard the muffled thump of the explosions, the timing devices setting them off within seconds of each other. The Greenleaf lurched to the shock then quickly listed and began to sink. By the time he was aboard the cruiser and the pinnace hoisted inboard the decks of the tramp were awash. Her stern reared up as her bow went under and she sank with a whistling of blown-off steam and rumbling as her engines broke loose inside her.
Kurt turned away from a sight that was always painful to a seaman. He saw the captain of the Greenleaf just a few yards away and wanted to express his sorrow to the old man but the cold grey eyes glared right through him without forgiveness.
Kurt tried to shrug that off, too; this was war and the old man and his ship were victims of it, but German ships were also being sunk and their crews killed. This had been a successful action. The enemy had been deprived of a ship and her cargo at no loss to Brandenburg.
Later that day he learned that was not completely true when Gustav Moehle gathered his officers about him in the wardroom to tell them of his plans. He began by cocking an eye at the pilot of the Arado and asking, “I understand all is not well with the seaplane?”
The pilot nodded reluctant agreement: “The engine has cracked beyond repair. I think because it heats when we are in flight but then is showered by the sea water when we come down to the sea. It is an air-cooled radial engine.”