The tug that had made a nuisance of itself in the vicinity of Urubu Island, Mendoza had admitted, should have been here to assist in PollyAnna’s berthing. Sure, there was another tug, he’d said, but it was laid-up for boiler cleaning: as that guy knew perfectly well, had simply been chancing his arm, wanting to complete some job he should have finished yesterday.
‘You handled it damn well, though.’ The Old Man was trying to say goodbye to Mendoza at the open doorway of his cabin. Port Health were on board, Halloran looking after them, and as soon as they’d cleared her and cleared off you’d have the agent, Martensen, with his paperwork and problems – and please God, mail and local currency. At the moment the connection between ship and shore was a narrow plank over which the Health team had come teetering ten minutes earlier; and the agent had to be that long stick of a man in a grey suit and a Homburg, who a few minutes ago had arrived abreast the ship in an open-topped motorcar, got out and then seen flag Q still flying, dumped his bag back in the car and begun pacing up and down like Felix the bloody cat. Mendoza wasn’t thinking of leaving yet, though; replying to that ‘handled it damn well’ with ‘Show them – huh?’ – pointing in the direction of the German ship, repeating, ‘Show them how can be done – huh?’
A nod. ‘Wouldn’t’ve done to have cocked it up.’ They were at the rail outside the day cabin now – port side, skipper looking aft at the ore chute which was positioned abreast number five hold. In fact it was a matter of having positioned the ship, as that old chute contraption wasn’t moveable; he’d be moving her a fair number of times in the next few days, shifting her this way and that along the quay for each hold gradually to receive its quota. This had been Mendoza’s main reason for berthing her with her bows pointing downstream; the other way round, she’d eventually have had to come out almost stern-first from berth number two, having nosed further and further into the narrowing slot between the quay and that buoyed shoal, Pedras das Argolas, and then turn – again on an incoming tide, and by that time of course deep-laden.
He had done a good job, in fact. And the Old Man liked him. Only wished he’d bugger off. Well – he’d have to now. Port Health had finished, had just appeared out on deck there with Halloran. Yellow flag fluttering down, and the gangway already swinging over, under the direction of the bosun, two deckhands guiding it with steadying-lines. The Health people would be gone and Martensen on his way up here in a minute – but Mendoza was still in no hurry: waving towards empty wharves and commenting, ‘Nobody work today, huh?’
‘Except a few of us, including me. You got a home to go to, have you?’
‘Ah, si. Home, wife, children –’
‘Lucky man.’
‘You not?’
‘No. Not now.’
‘In England – no home, no wife?’
‘Home, of sorts, but no wife.’ Pointing: ‘Is that Martensen?’
‘Hm.’ Disinterested glance: more interested in this English skipper’s wifelessness. ‘Martensen, sure. But, Captain – hearing what happen with Graf Spee now, eh?’ A sweeping gesture towards the town: ‘Everyone listen this!’ A narrowing of the eyes: ‘Germans, too – Germans in Glauchau? Is not good, Glauchau. I tell you, Captain –’
‘You don’t have to. I know it. No German’s any bloody good.’ A glance down towards the gangway: Port Health were ashore and Halloran was waiting to greet the Dane. The skipper clamped a friendly but compelling hand on Mendoza’s arm, turning him towards the ladder. ‘She’s here for engine repairs, you said. I’d have thought they’d have put her alongside. Anyhow –’
‘To anchor is what her captain is wanting, and why I am saying –’
‘I’d be keen to hear it, but I must see this damned agent, then fifty other things – paying the hands and – see, I’m sorry, but –’
Andy and others drinking coffee in the saloon heard the buzz of the loudspeaker as it came on, and the American voice from Montevideo telling them in the cheery tone of a wakey-wakey call, ‘Sunday seventeenth September, day the Graf Spee’s time runs out! Her luck may be running out too, who knows! Anyway, by eight o’clock this evening, Uruguayan time, she has either to get the heck out or be interned here. It’s being said there could be as many as five or seven British warships waiting for her to put her nose outside the three-mile limit, but like a lot else that’s being said, it’s nothing more than rumour. For all I know or anyone has been able to tell me authoritatively, the blockading force is still just three cruisers, same ones that drove her in here. There’s been mention of bigger Royal Navy ships, an aircraft-carrier and a battlecruiser, but only that they were expected at Rio to refuel – to ‘bunker’ as seamen call it – and Rio’s a thousand miles from here. Maybe the German captain – Langsdorff – knows for sure what odds he’ll be facing, maybe he doesn’t, but as of now his ship is still right here in the anchorage, along with a German steamer, the Tacoma, which has moved out from the inner harbour and anchored close to her – for what purpose is something else we don’t know. From this café on the waterfront – a café in which I may say I’m standing on a table, to see over the heads of the crowd outside – well, I have a view of both ships, and when I know what’s going on you can bet you’ll get to know it too. A transfer of stores is I guess the most likely thing. I might add that a lot of folk here in Monte believed the Spee would make a break for it last night: that seemed credible enough, might even have been their best bet, but it emerges now that Captain Langsdorff was not even on board, went out to her by launch no more than an hour ago, having spent the night in the German embassy. But incidentally, when I referred a minute ago to a lot of folk here in Monte – let me tell you there truly are a lot – thousands! And of course this waterfront in particular is jammed solid…’
You could visualise it, those quays – the muelles – and the streets behind them jam-packed with people. But nothing might happen for hours yet, most likely wouldn’t, and one didn’t have the patience to sit around listening to what was still no more than speculation and a certain amount of ‘local colour’ – the commentary continuing, as Andy swallowed the last of his coffee: ‘Folk packing the waterfront, on roofs even and in every window, agog to see whether that mighty ship will make a run for it, face the near-certainty of battle – in which case it might be asked why did she run away from battle in the first place?’ Perfectly sound question, might well be asked, but only Langsdorff and company could have answered it. He shut the saloon door behind him; he was as eager as any of them to hear of those bastards getting their come-uppance, especially having in mind the ships like this one that she’d preyed on – ships sunk, crews drowned or otherwise slaughtered, PollyAnna herself having come close enough to that same treatment.
Didn’t bear thinking about. No point thinking about it.
Mail, in any case, was the thought in mind. A hope that the agent might be bringing some.
No packed waterfront here. A van just driving off, and – with perfect timing – a man who could only have been the agent just starting up the gangway. Grey lightweight suit, grey Homburg, Gladstone bag; and Halloran at the ship’s side waiting for him. He was replying to some question from Halloran: ‘No – no work today. Sunday, for one thing, but also this Graf Spee business, all ears are pressed to wireless sets. Tomorrow 0800, loading is to start.’ Adding as he got up there and put his hand out: ‘If you’ll be ready for it – as I presumed you would be. How d’you do? I’m Martensen.’
Grave-faced, with a rather formal manner and perfectly enunciated English. Too perfect – Germanic, rather. And that excessively loud music, Andy realised, was coming from the German ship, not from the Brazilian along there. Wagner? He was only guessing, knew damn-all about it, but that was how it sounded, the name that sprang to mind. Leaving those two, he moved over to the starboard side for a look at the German. Tide on the turn, he realised, Glauchau on the swing, within minutes would be lying with her stem up-river. Time now being nine-fifty. Crossing back to the shore side he heard Halloran say, ‘I’ll take you up, then. But d’you have mail for us?’
‘No private mail. Only ship’s business.’ Cold blue eyes, weak mouth. ‘You’ll have had some in Montevideo, I imagine?’
‘Some, but –’
Anxious to hear from Leila that she still loves him?
‘Could get some tomorrow. If we do I’ll send it straight along. You’ll be here – what, six or seven days?’
‘Skipper’ll aim for six or less, since Sundays are a washout. Depends how they handle that chute – eh?’
‘Oh, they are efficient enough. The equipment is antiquated, sure, but – you might be surprised. Do you have all the dunnage you require?’
A nod. ‘Took on a whole lot in Calcutta not long ago.’ Dunnage in the form of heavy burlap mats, the holds needing cushioning against the ore’s weight and other characteristics, rock being heavier and harder than coal, for instance, as well as having cutting edges. Martensen had glanced at Andy, taking in his rank, such as it was, and deciding not to bother. Halloran similarly – only inviting the agent, ‘This way, then…’ Andy having hoped for mail because Wednesday – the twentieth – would be his twenty-first; there’d been no reference to it in recent letters from home and he’d told himself they must be holding their fire: closer to the great day there’d be a rush of it. Still, could be tomorrow or Tuesday, even the day itself. And if there wasn’t any – which was a possibility one had to face now – hell, couldn’t blame them for it. Might have written in what would have seemed to them good time, and the GPO sent the lot to Sydney or Mombasa.
His father would most certainly have written. Mama too. And Annabel.
But what the hell – one might well have been at sea, pure chance that one wasn’t. Is a bloody war on, mate…
‘Ah – so sorry!’ The pilot, Mendoza – Andy had almost knocked him down in the screen doorway. He tried French: ‘Pardon, senhor…’
‘Pas de quoi.’ Smiling, and now back to his brand of English, with a glance at the thin, single stripe on Andy’s sleeve: ‘Third mate, uh?’
He nodded. ‘Name’s Holt, sir.’
‘Not in Vitoria before?’
‘No.’ Backing out, letting Mendoza out, and glancing townward – stone-coloured buildings, slate-grey roofs, near-vertical slicks of chimney-smoke, a cathedral spire against pale-blue sky, backdrop of green hills. He pointed: ‘Nice to walk, up there?’
‘Very nice.’ Nodding emphatically. ‘After sea is good, such place.’ Squinting up at the hillsides… Then abruptly, ‘But also I tell you – that way’ – to the right, the start of a road slanting northeastward like a gully through the close-packed buildings – ‘that way, then turning to the’ – working it out, slapping his own left forearm – ‘to port, eh?’
‘Left.’
‘So – left. Café-bar, Manolo’s. Is good fellow, not cheating you. Also girls very nice.’
‘How far?’
‘Ah.’ Screwing his face up. ‘Three, four hundred metre. Tell him you friend of mine. Mario Mendoza, huh?’
Except for some RCs, including Fisher, who’d been given leave to visit the cathedral for mass, the hands were being allowed shore-leave from midday, could more or less please themselves in the interim, except for cleaning up their own quarters, especially the mess-hall, in which once the skipper had got shot of Martensen he’d lay on his usual Sunday business, reading a few prayers and suggesting a hymn or two to sing. It was mid-forenoon by the end of this, and he had still to make and record pay advances in cruzeiros to those who’d applied for them; these as it happened included Andy, whose intention was to make a bit of a reconnaissance of Manolo’s – in advance of Wednesday, when he thought he might treat himself to a birthday binge.
News from Montevideo was that the German steamer Tacoma had shifted berth, re-anchoring between Graf Spee and the shore, interrupting the watchers’ view of whatever they were doing. Crowds were even thicker along the waterfront than they had been earlier, and the café from which the broadcast was being made had sold out of practically everything.
Music booming across the water from the Glauchau now was brass-band stuff – reminiscent of the emissions of that other one, at Monte. And if they were listening to that, Andy thought, they were not listening to broadcasts from Monte or elsewhere. From Berlin, for instance; or even, if they had a competent interpreter of English on board, to that Yank. Unless – well, might be listening to news broadcasts down below, maybe? That noise only on deck – camouflage, persiflage anyway – or call it Teutonic bullshit – plainly for the ears of outsiders only, since there was only one Hun on deck. No – two: another had just emerged from the midships superstructure, joining one who had a chair – of sorts, was sitting on something anyway – close to the ship’s side, starboard side amidships, abaft number three hatch. Those two were presumably the watch on deck. Or the one on the chair was – the newcomer taking over from him. Which rather bore out the concept of the rest of the crew congregating elsewhere, listening to the wireless. To the Yank, even – they’d only need one man capable of acting as interpreter. Both of those still there, though: seated Hun still seated, the other leaning against the rail and in the process of lighting a cigarette.
No gangway rigged. A Jacob’s ladder was all, and not where those two men were, but much further aft – abreast the mainmast, i.e. between hatches four and five. There was a boat close to the ladder’s foot, too. Black-painted, not all that easy to see against the ship’s black hull: motorboat with a shelter for’ard and its engine amidships, engine about the size of a cabin trunk.
You’d have thought that the quartermaster, or watch on deck, would be stationed at the point of entry to the ship, namely the Jacob’s ladder. It made no sense not to be.
For a better view, and a possible solution to the puzzle, he went up to monkey island, stopping en route at the chart table to borrow Fisher’s telescope. Up top then he found cadets Gorst and Janner doing bookwork, ‘hearing’ each other on the subject of Regulations for the Prevention of Collisions at Sea, and on the spur of the moment asked them if they’d like to go ashore with him after lunch, climb those hills – maybe have a look at the cathedral on the way. They both said they’d like to, then continued with their studies while he crouched in the starboard for’ard corner and focused on the German.
Only one man there now – the one on the chair. He was smoking; maybe they had changed round. Blue trousers, paler blue shirt, a round, fat face. Brass band still pumping out martial music: where he was sitting it had to be deafeningly loud.
The loudspeaker – or a loudspeaker – was fixed to the bulkhead, that for’ard corner of the superstructure, virtually within his reach. Would be, if he tilted the chair over a bit and stretched a long arm. It was the usual box-shaped thing, shiny brown wood showing up clearly against grey paintwork. Nobody in his senses would voluntarily remain that close to such a volume of sound. Had to, obviously. And there’d been music of sorts playing at about that same pitch since early morning – certainly since PollyAnna had slid in past them a couple of hours ago.
Think about it. Because it didn’t make any sense, and things should make sense. At sea, anyway. Scanning the rest of her now. All five hatches covered and secured. Only that one boat in the water: you could see the davits it had come out of, also two lifeboats secured in theirs. One derrick, the closest to the empty davits, was the only one not lashed down on its chocks. For the purpose of – well, when the boat was hoisted it would surely be brought up on its own falls, so the derrick had been left ready for use for some other purpose.
For hauling up the engine-spare or spares Mendoza had said they were waiting for?
Boat collects spares from shore, brings them (or it) to where it can be hoisted on that derrick. Boat itself then to be hoisted. Sounded like sense: but such a state of readiness rather suggested imminent arrival of the spares – and equally imminent departure of the ship? Whereas surely her engineers would fit the spares before departure – if they needed them at all – taking at least an hour or two, possibly a day or two.
But all right, if they didn’t want contact with the shore – as presumably they didn’t, having chosen to lie at anchor – they’d bring the spares off in the boat, hoist them on that derrick, fit them in however long the job might take, and push off – having paid their dues and got clearance, needing the boat for at least that much shore-going.
It still looked like a ship just waiting for the ‘off’. The look, the feel of it. Even though there was no discernible heat-haze at the funnel-top. And the band playing on. The guy on the chair lighting another cigarette. Might well need it too, Andy thought, glancing round as Gorst answered Janner, who had the book open in front of him, Gorst with his eyes shut in an effort of concentration: ‘Where by any of these Rules one of two vessels is to keep out of the way, the other shall keep her course and speed. When, from any cause, the latter vessel finds herself so close that collision cannot be avoided by the action of the giving-way vessel alone, she also shall take such action as will best aid to avert collision.’
‘Spot on!’
Andy commented, ‘Common sense, isn’t it.’
Gorst shrugged. ‘But why couldn’t they have put it in plain English. I ask you – as will best aid to avert…’
They landed soon after lunch – Andy, the cadets, and Howie, fourth engineer – in shirtsleeves and flannels, starting off eastward along the quay for a look at the Brazilian, Volcao, in her smart yellow and brown livery. A heavy-built quartermaster in white ducks came to the gangway’s head and stared down at them as they passed; Andy raised a hand in greeting and the man called something first in Portuguese, then English: ‘Graf Spee – feex her wagon, hunh?’ Showing the right spirit, anyway. Howie called back, ‘Feex it good an’ proper, chum!’ Then they were abreast the Glauchau, Andy seeing that the watchkeeper – a watchkeeper – was still there, same place and still seated, but wearing a hat; the speaker was thumping out a marching tune that he’d heard before but couldn’t have named. She was about a cable’s length out into the stream, with her bow still pointing upstream of course; you could see the strength of the still ebbing tide where it fizzed dirty-white around her cable and sheer stem. Nearer three knots than two, he guessed.
Janner queried, ‘Particular interest in the Hun?’
‘Well.’ Stopping, staring. ‘There’s certainly one peculiarity to my mind. Spot it?’
Oddly, none of them did.
‘See the character in the boater?’
They’d all noticed him. So what?
‘The boat and the Jacob’s ladder? Wouldn’t you expect your gangway watch to be less than two hundred feet from it?’
‘I’d say he’s sitting there for the shade he’s got.’ Howie again. ‘If a boat were coming he’d see it, gi’e ’em a shout below an’ nip aft – eh?’
‘See the loudspeaker that racket’s coming out of?’
‘Aye.’ Double-take then: ‘Crikey. If yon is a –’
‘Drive anyone nuts, wouldn’t you have thought?’
‘Could be it’s a wireless playin’ inside – not that thing at all. Screen door there’s open – uh?’
‘Then anyone inside there would be really deafened – and we wouldn’t be hearing it this loud. I’ll bet they’re cursing it all over town.’
‘Aye.’ Howie nodded. ‘Siesta time, an’ all.’
‘Surprised someone doesn’t shut ’em up. Port Captain or police, whatever.’
Andy agreed with Gorst. ‘That is another peculiar thing. Here’s where we start inland, though.’
Some boys on bicycles flashed past, yelling to each other, the bikes juddering over the quayside’s cobbles: they’d come out of the straight, narrow street Mendoza had pointed out to him. To the left up here, then left again. There were a few perambulating couples and families; would be more later in the afternoon or evening, he guessed. Mendoza’s turn to port came after only about fifty yards. He told them, ‘Left here, then I reckon we head for the cathedral spire. But did you check out the hills?’
They had, and Janner, who’d made a pencil sketch of them, proposed starting on Morro Sao Francisco – charted height about 300 feet – then pushing on about a mile further inland, down through a valley and up to Morro Frade Leopado.
‘Then, return route over this one – Morro do Avezedo. None of ’em’s exactly Snowdon, is it.’
‘Still hear that Hun’s racket…’
Could see Manolo’s, too. White-painted brick frontage with a glass door in it, the name Manolo on that in flowery script, and some iron tables and benches each side of it. No light showed from inside, and with the narrowness of the street it was dark in there: not open for business at this hour, therefore. Well, as someone had mentioned, it was siesta time. There were notices displayed inside the glass of the door which might have been menus and/or given opening and closing times, but he didn’t pause or go close enough to read them, because (a) they’d have been in Portuguese, and (b) he didn’t want to draw attention to the place, risk having Halloran hear about it and queer the pitch. He’d thought of this when Mendoza had mentioned girls.
They were back on board by five-twenty, and Andy was in the saloon by half-past, drinking tea and hearing the American telling his audience, ‘… ‘skeleton crew’ is what we keep hearing about now. Reflecting what I caught on to a little while ago – that it’s men, not stores, that are being transferred, and not out of the Tacoma into the Graf Spee but the other way about, boatload after boatload of Graf Spee crew being shunted over and disappearing below decks in that steamer the minute they get on board. They have their kit with them too, which suggests they’re staying – leaving behind only that aforementioned ‘skeleton crew’. What’s being asked now of course is what for? For instance, a suicidal battle against tremendous odds, Langsdorff taking no more to their deaths than he has to? Or is he putting his ship into internment in Buenos Aires, leaving as many free as possible? That, I’m told, is as good a bet as any – to get her up-river to BA he might only need, say, a couple of dozen men. And he couldn’t fight the ship, man all her guns and control positions, so forth, without a full compliment. So what other choices does he have?’
Halloran growled, ‘Sneak away. Flat out. Man one turret – and torpedo tubes maybe – crack on thirty knots or more – and she has radar, in other words can see in the bloody dark…’
The chief engineer was shaking his head, with one hand over his eyes, but not bothering to comment. McAlan murmuring, ‘I’d’ve thought you’d man all your guns. Apart from speed, fire-power’s her big advantage.’
The broadcaster was saying, ‘Consensus here is that scuttling would not be an option – that the implication of unwillingness to fight, well, wouldn’t be acceptable. On the other hand…’
Fisher cut in quietly while the Yank continued, ‘Man’s already made it clear he doesn’t want to fight by running for Monte in the first place, hasn’t he. I think he will scuttle.’
‘And be shot for cowardice when he gets back?’ Halloran shrugged contemptuously. ‘Want to bet, Fisher?’
‘No. But then –’
Shutting his mouth as the Yank told them, ‘Fresh news now – Langsdorff has expressed the intention of sailing at six-fifteen. Gave this assurance to the Uruguayan authorities, apparently. So in fifteen minutes, ladies and gentlemen…’
‘Twelve and a half minutes.’ Fisher asked Andy then – both with one ear to the continuing waffle – ‘Good run ashore, was it?’
‘Terrific. Did literally run – down the hills, mind you.’
‘… another piece of news is that some tugs have arrived out there in the bay from Buenos Aires. They’re German-owned – a German company in BA. But what part they’ll be playing in this… Yeah, what was that? Ah – something I missed, but I see it now – Graf Spee has hoisted two very large German ensigns, one at each masthead, and – sure, she’s weighing her anchor. To folk outside that’s audible, the chain clanking in. So here’s what we’ve been waiting around for all day – the answers to our questions, climax of this historic naval drama. Yeah, it’s begun, Graf Spee is on the move; and so incidentally is the Tacoma…’
Steward Jackson meanwhile setting the table. Knives, forks, and side-plates for bread and cheese. Now the pantry hatch was open, there was an aroma of frying fish. Andy guessing that his father might be listening to this commentary; Dewar had told him it was being picked up by the BBC and simultaneously retransmitted in their world-coverage. You could bet the old man would be getting it. So would the cruisers outside there, waiting – as likely as not still only the three of them, awaiting battle, even praying for it. Well – why not? Moving round to his usual place at the table he whispered to himself, ‘God, be with them.’
‘Folk – hear this now – the Graf Spee has up-anchored and is on her way out of the anchorage, with the Tacoma following. In fact the Spee is already outside. From where she was berthed, didn’t have far to go, and I guess I was a little slow on it. She’s hauling round to starboard now – that’s to say, turning into the sun which is on its way down, shadows already lengthening, and a fine, still evening. Well, I know there’s a dredged channel out there that leads due south, but Langsdorff seems to be ignoring it. Maybe with three-quarters of the crew out of her – could be light in other respects as well – he’s reckoning to pass clear over the mud shoals. What’s being said now is maybe he’s cutting a corner on his way up the estuary to Buenos Aires – maybe – because if those Royal Navy ships were aware of any such intention you can bet they’d try to catch him between here and there, and I guess they could, if –’
He’d checked the flow. Background voices intervening, and Jackson with the first plates of fried fish in his large, allegedly heatproof hands, assuring Hibbert, ‘Skipper’s having his up top, sir. Watkins took it up couple o’ secs ago.’ Skipper would have his own speaker on, naturally. This one now blurping back into life with, ‘The Graf Spee has stopped. Tacoma too. Less easy to see now…’
‘Spuds this way, Janner?’
‘Ah – sorry…’
‘Wouldn’t mind being back in that Antepuerto this minute. Grandstand view from monkey island, uh?’
‘Hake, is this?’
‘Hake it is, sir. Brought in this morning.’ Back to the hatch: ‘Two more ’ll do it…’
But neither Graf Spee nor Tacoma had stopped, apparently. Error of observation, that last report: but as mentioned, rather tricky light… Nothing else of much interest was coming over now: if the Spee was still underway she’d have to be moving pretty damn slowly, Andy thought, to be still in sight. And still nothing happening, as far as the broadcaster knew… Until seven, anyway – or just after, four minutes past – when a small Uruguayan warship stopped the Tacoma. Probably that little so-called ‘cruiser’ which he remembered seeing in a naval anchorage close to Punta Lobos – from where she’d have been in an ideal position to intercept or overhaul the Germans. Sprat pursuing whale, one might think: but Tacoma having sailed without obtaining clearance, maybe.
And now the tugs from BA had come into it, or been brought into it: were alongside the Tacoma, embarking Graf Spee crewmen from her.
‘Can’t guess why, but that’s what they’re at…’
It took a while, too. The hake was finished, cheese and fruit in circulation. Then, at about seven-thirty: ‘The Graf Spee has stopped. Definitely has, this time. She’s on her own… No, there’s one tug with her, and boats in the water. Kind folk here are telling me she’s outside the three-mile limit. I’ll take their word for that. She’s lying stopped anyway – black against a reddening sunset, and’ – a two-second pause, then louder, tones of growing excitement –‘She’s hauled down her ensign! Should’ve said ensigns, plural – she had two flying. Hauled ’em down, which surely means –’
They all knew what hauling down an ensign meant. Jackson had put coffee on the table, no one was speaking, but cigarettes were being lit. Seconds, minutes ticking by: you could have been in church, if it hadn’t been for the drifts of smoke and the coffee jug going round. Then, drowning out a mutter from Halloran of ‘Come on chum, what are the buggers –’
‘Oh now, see that! A great shoot of flame – and another – lighting a sky that’s already lit by the kind of sunset you only see in pictures! The heck – another flame – that one must’ve shot up a hundred feet or more – and the sound’s reaching us now – cracking, thunderous explosions! The Graf Spee, ladies and gentlemen, is burning from stem to stern, the sunset’s fiery red beyond her, but believe me her fires are brighter!’
And that was that. Graf Spee finito. No more RRR calls on her account. She’d founder there where she was burning – if there was enough water under her to founder in. It wasn’t deep, out that way. Andy asked Fisher, ‘Feel like fresh air? Stroll along the quay?’
‘Good idea.’ Fisher glanced at Halloran. ‘All right?’
That was Fisher being tactful: Halloran had the duty anyway. He’d shrugged: ‘Why not?’ To Andy then: ‘Doubt you’ll find a boozer open, Sunday.’