by Alan Evans
The guns firing were the same anti-aircraft armament as used that morning but this time they were not searching for a man in hiding. They had a clear target and the range was a bare 800 metres, almost point blank. The shells were 40mm and 20mm and they tore through the thin plate of the lighter in their scores, buried themselves and burst in the thick sandbag walls around the wheelhouse. She was riddled above and below water.
Smith and Jake were deafened by the noise, stunned by the succession of shocks, almost blinded by the continual yellow glare of shell bursts. They saw everything in camera flashes between those sheets of intense light and pitchy darkness. In the wheelhouse they were like prisoners in a drum beaten and shaken by a giant hand. Their faces were contorted, teeth bared in grimaces of pain as the din beat around them, despite the cotton wool plugged in their ears. Their eyes squinted against the glare. Jake bounced about the wheelhouse as the lighter shook to the beating. Smith clung to the wheel and somehow kept the Mary Ellen’s head pointed at the entrance to the pool, that narrow gap between the two marker buoys.
The lighter was almost on station. Jake fetched up beside Smith and held himself there by clamping his hands on the compass binnacle. He peered through the slit looking out along the lighter’s length to her bow and beyond and pointed with a stabbing finger. He was indicating the entrance; shouting was useless. Smith nodded. Jake peered again then turned on Smith, held his hand out flat then bent the fingers down. Smith nodded again, knew what he meant, had already seen that the Mary Ellen was down by the bows. But she was there on station now, where he wanted her.
The bow had nosed between the two marker buoys and now they slid past on either side. Smith waited, judging the lighter’s speed and that of the current, until he thought she was far enough into the pool. Then he spun the wheel and she turned broadside across the stream.
At once the shelling seemed to intensify; the Mary Ellen was now a broader target for the gunners aboard the cruiser and every shot told. The lighter shuddered continually throughout her frame and heeled over under the battering.
In the wheelhouse they staggered and Smith jerked a thumb over his shoulder. Jake saw the gesture in the shifting glare, from searchlight and shell bursts, that lit them. He clawed his way across the yard of space to the slit in the rear of the sandbags and looked out, seeking the marker buoy on his side. He found it downriver and shoved a hand in front of Smith’s face, pointing that way. Smith had found the other buoy on his side, nodded acknowledgment of Jake’s signal.
The bow of the Mary Ellen was now under water. The engine stopped, flooded. They saw the river roll in over the side of the lighter and spill across the deck; she was sinking so quickly now. There was no need to fire the charge Smith had set against the hull, nor was there time. They shoved out of the wheelhouse, edging along the narrow passage through the stacked sandbags, Jake in the lead and Smith at his back. The river was coming in, washing first around their ankles, then their knees, now reaching up to their thighs.
They waded out onto the deck and found only the lifted stern of the lighter visible above water. As she rolled they slipped and fell, Smith on top of Jake. They floundered for a second in two feet of water, Jake in danger of drowning, then Smith hauled him onto his feet, coughing and spluttering. They fell forward again but this time into the river and struck out with the current. Then as one they turned their heads to look back. They were in time to see the stern, still lit by the searchlight’s beam and ringed by the upflung spray from shell bursts. Then it slid down and out of sight below the surface of the river. Last to go was Garrity’s White Ensign, still flying bravely.
The current carried them away and the guns ceased firing now that there was no target. The searchlight blinked out and the night closed around them. They rode on the current within a yard of each other, together in a small circle of visibility and all around them the outer darkness.
At the start they were shocked and numbed, lay limply and let the river take them. Then later they began to swim as well as they could in the lifejackets, keeping together and trying to edge over to the right bank of the stream. Jake found then that the arm he had fallen on was numb from the shoulder downwards. It flapped but uselessly, awkwardly.
The dark mass of the cruiser was far behind them, as was the lair of the guardboat. They saw nothing of the launch. Smith decided it may well have returned to Brandenburg to report and have its wounded tended, had probably been on its way back to the cruiser to be lifted inboard for the run downriver to the sea.
Then they saw the boat. First there was the pin-prick of light from a torch held close above the surface of the river, the fingers of its holder wrapped across the lens so only that small point of light showed. They hailed it hoarsely and then the torch became a long, narrow cone of brilliance that sought them out then settled in a circle on their open-mouthed heads. The boat rode underneath the torch, Buckley tugging at the oars to bring it towards them, Garrity the hunched figure in the bow holding the torch, the slender figure of the girl leaning over the stern to reach out to the two exhausted men in the water.
Smith dragged himself aboard with the help of Véronique tugging at his shoulders. They turned to Jake next but he gasped, “Sorry! Right arm’s gone. Broken, bruised, sprained — what the heck, I don’t know, but I can’t use it.”
Véronique said, “We’ll pull you in.” She and Smith tried but failed, Jake’s weight was too much for them. He could not help with just the one arm.
Buckley said, “Can you make room for me?”
Smith said, “Yes.” He was about to climb out over the stern again but the girl was first, sliding into the river alongside Jake and inside his limp right arm to put her shoulder under his, lifting. As she did so he felt her breast under his right hand that he had thought as numb as the rest of that arm. He was not to forget that.
But now Buckley had taken the girl’s place in the stern, reached down with Smith to seize Jake and with the girl shoving him up they hauled him inboard. Buckley sat him in the sternsheets and the girl climbed in over the side to sit beside him. Jake looked at her sidewise, remembering that startling revelation of her body pressed against him. She did not seem to be aware of that and only promised, “I’ll look at your arm when we have light.” But, shyly, she did not look at him now.
Buckley, relieved that Smith had returned unhurt, bent to the oars again and sent the boat flying downriver with the current. If the SS Sotheby was on time then she would be waiting at the mouth of the river. Smith slumped in the sternsheets alongside Véronique and Jake. He was soaking wet but the night was warm and so was the body of the girl next to him. He was weary to the bone and leaned against her, his eyes closing as he watched Buckley bend forward and back in a steady rhythm. He remembered the big leading hand’s concern when Smith had been dragged into the boat, and grinned at the memory, even laughed softly. So that Buckley and the girl looked at him, startled.
But Smith’s eyes were closed now. As he drifted into sleep he thought that he was pretty sure he had laid the Mary Ellen where he wanted her.
Chapter Seventeen – “No medals for the Mary Ellen!”
Gustav Moehle, captain of Brandenburg, sent a boat and a good man with the lead to sound the entrance to the pool where the lighter had sunk. He also sent another boat with a diver aboard to go down and examine the obstruction and report. That took time, and at the end the word from the diver only confirmed the findings obtained by the laborious process of sounding with the lead: the entrance to the pool was blocked, the Mary Ellen laid across it. Where there had been twenty-five feet of water there was now only fifteen between the wreck of the lighter and the surface.
Brandenburg drew nineteen feet.
Kurt Larsen, at the back of the bridge, saw his captain take the news calmly. Truth to tell, Moehle had expected it. He had guessed that the lighter had not been making an attack but intended to lock him in, had hoped the attempt had failed. But he had witnessed the way that attempt had been steadily p
ressed home in the face of a terrible fire, seen the long, low craft handled as if no gun was laid on her at all. And then she was sunk between the two marker buoys as if they had been put there for her benefit.
Paul Brunner, the Executive Officer, suggested doubtfully, “We could try to drive through. She’ll be built of pretty thin steel plate.”
“But a lot of it. And she was loaded with cargo, low in the water.” Moehle shook his head. Cargo or no, if he tried to force his way through the lighter and out into the river then he would damage Brandenburg’s bottom. Now he was not thinking of making her fit to fight but of her survival. He had made good the damage to her bow but he would not repair a hole ripped in her bottom without recourse to a dockyard. He gave his orders: “Tell the divers to blast a way for us.”
But that, too, took time. The divers finally surfaced, after numerous dives and several muffled explosions, to report that the way was clear. Moehle took his ship out of the pool and hurrying downstream but by then it was three in the morning.
Kurt Larsen still hoped they might be in time to aid Graf Spee. Her sailing could be delayed. And he told himself that the luck was turning their way when Brandenburg ran past the port at the mouth of the river. It was broad day but she passed unseen by anyone on the shore because of the thick fog lying over the estuary. She had come and gone in secret. The world would never know she had been there.
But she had been seen. The boat from the Mary Ellen had rowed slowly across the estuary from first light. That was at Smith’s order. Despite his weariness he had dozed only fitfully, starting awake every now and again to peer around him and demand, “Where are we now?’’ He had woken finally with the dawn when Buckley told him they had reached the mouth of the river. Smith had rubbed at his face and said grimly, “We’ll patrol and see her out. Then we’ll look for the Sotheby.”
No one rebelled. Jake and the girl, Garrity and Buckley, they had all been looking forward to going aboard the merchantman, certain of coffee and breakfast, a bunk and sleep. But they accepted Smith’s ruling without complaint because he was still the captain, Buckley without surprise because he knew Smith. Garrity relinquished the oars that he had pulled for the past hour and Buckley took them up again. It was not to be their last exchange.
Smith had been afraid Brandenburg would be close behind them but she was not. He feared, as the light grew about them, the minutes ticked into hours and on into the morning, that she would elude him in the mist.
She almost did. But then Jake, hollow-eyed and bristly-jawed, said huskily, “What’s that over there?”
Buckley paused in his rowing and they all peered along the line of the pointing finger. Jake saw her and they all saw her, as he had seen her that first night, as a furred silhouette glimpsed through the mist. The high steel cliff of her side, her towering superstructure and the turrets with the long, menacing barrels of the guns — all seen like a ghost ship. The rumble of her engines came to them as a deep note reaching out over the river. Then she drove deeper into the mist and was gone.
They stared after her, open-mouthed except for Smith, who sank back in his seat and said, “All right, now we’ll look for the Sotheby.” He saw Buckley shaking his head over his captain but Smith was content at last. He had done his duty, all man could, and Brandenburg would be too late to help Graf Spee. Now he would truly rest.
*
In the evening of that day Hannah Fitzsimmons and Sarah stood on the deck of a tug steaming out of Montevideo. Their places had been bought expensively by Hannah but she had dismissed the cost drily: “I’ll put it down to expenses, honey.” Sarah had laughed. Both still anxiously awaited news of Smith, never mentioned him except when they made their daily visit to the shipping office. Sarah had set the example there and Hannah had admired her courage and copied her silence.
The two women had grown together since their first meeting in Warsaw months before. The elegant Hannah had not changed but Sarah had let her hair grow so now it swung on her shoulders. They worked together, laughed and argued, had one thing in common. Hannah glanced at Sarah now and prayed for good news of Smith — for both of them.
The tug had just cleared the harbour, where every inch of space was crowded with silent watchers, 200,000 people come to see history made. Graf Spee had sailed earlier and was a mile ahead of the tug. There had been mist at first but they could see her clearly now. There was tension among those aboard the tug, whether they were crew or correspondents. They believed they were to witness a naval battle at first hand because Graf Spee was headed out to sea and the three British cruisers waited there. They showed as specks on the horizon, closing in for the kill — or to be killed. An aircraft from one of them circled slowly above the pocket battleship. The range between her and the cruisers was steadily closing and she was outside the three-mile limit recognised by the Royal Navy as Uruguayan waters.
Sarah thought that the deception she and Hannah had practised or attempted might have deferred the bloodshed for a time but now it was sure to come. Soon …
But then Hannah put her binoculars to her eyes. After a moment she said, puzzled, “I think she’s stopped.”
She handed the glasses to Sarah, who stared out to sea and then slowly agreed, “She looks to be stopped. And there are boats leaving her now.”
They passed the glasses from one to the other as the minutes ticked by, the tug plugged out to sea and the sun slid down the sky. It was setting when Sarah said, “There’s a flash, like lightning! And smoke!” Hannah saw both against the red of the setting sun, the long tongue of flame and then the column of dirty smoke boiling high above the superstructure of Graf Spee. Sarah lowered the binoculars and then they both heard the deep rumble of the explosion.
Sarah whispered, “She’s blown herself up!”
And Hannah, who had seen enough of killing, said softly, “Thank God!”
Sunset turned into dusk, then night and Graf Spee settled but sank no further, her bottom lodged on a bank. She blazed from end to end now.
*
Robert Hurst and Donovan were at their action stations as Ajax closed the coast of Uruguay. Their turret had been a casualty of the earlier action and so they were now again part of a damage control party aft of the bridge. They knew something of that now and were silent. They had survived once and you shouldn’t push your luck.
They watched as Ajax launched her aircraft, the little Seafox catapulted from the waist to climb and turn away to head towards the coast. Some time after that a messenger came scurrying down from the bridge on an errand and Donovan called to him, “Hey! What’s goin’ on?”
The messenger might have been eighteen years old but looked younger. He gave them a quick, nervous grin and hurried on about his business, but he called over his shoulder, “She’s coming out!”
Donovan and Hurst exchanged glances and the big man said quietly, “Jesus Christ.”
Robert Hurst echoed, “Amen.”
It was dusk now and the sun was setting over the sea towards Argentina. The American radio commentators had described Harwood’s ships as ‘The suicide squadron with their pop-guns’. The three cruisers held on their course to meet Graf Spee and the men aboard them waited for that meeting.
Then a man came running along the deck and shouted as he passed, “Lewin, up in the air—”, he was talking of the pilot of the Seafox, “—he says she’s blown herself up!”
They did not believe it, of course, though they wanted to. It was too good to be true. But the message passed again and again, then the cheering started and at last they knew that they were going to live. So when Achilles hauled up alongside Ajax and the crews of both ships cheered like maniacs, Donovan and Robert Hurst were among the leaders.
The ships steamed in to see the last of their enemy. It was night now, full dark, and the grounded hulk was ablaze from stem to stern, a massive funeral pyre of a great ship with flames towering to top her masts. She had evaded a hundred hunting warships of two navies, British and French, and almost
pounded Exeter to destruction. Now she was being destroyed before their eyes.
The three cruisers turned away and steamed out to sea to take up station again off the estuary of the River Plate.
*
Gustav Moehle, like Harwood but unknowingly, had Mike Fowler’s broadcasts coming through on his bridge as his ship headed for the waters off Montevideo at her full speed of thirty knots. Kurt Larsen had gone to the bridge for some routine reason and then dallied, listening. So he heard the American’s drawled account of the scuttling and destruction of Graf Spee.
Kurt choked and could not speak. Every man aboard Brandenburg had tried so hard to join their consort off the Plate but they had failed. Kurt could see now in his mind’s eye the thin face of the man who had beaten them, his cold stare and quick, warm smile. A man who could lead and would be followed. Kurt had met him in Spain and Berlin, wondered if he had seen the last of him now.
He heard Moehle order the change of course that would take him and his crew back to Germany. The radio was switched off and now there was silence on the bridge. Moehle broke it with just one sentence, voice deep with emotion, “This is a sad day for Langsdorff, a fine captain and a good man.” Then the silence closed in again.
*
When Smith stepped aboard Sotheby that morning he asked for a signal to be sent off in plain language, that Brandenburg had been sighted off the mouth of the river. Sotheby’s captain looked at him oddly but the signal was sent and acknowledged by a destroyer. Smith had little hope that the cruiser would be found in the huge empty tracts of the wide Atlantic, but sending that signal was also part of his duty.
He and his little band spoke no word of Brandenburg’s seeking sanctuary in the river. He told Sotheby’s captain that he, Buckley and Véronique were survivors from the Whitby. Jake and Garrity said they were getting out because of anti-British and anti-American activities in the port. Jake muttered to Garrity, “And that’ll be true enough when that bastard Otto Bergmann gets back downriver. He’ll be looking for us to shoot us!”