Tuesday 29 October, one a.m. Otto had dropped Helena at the Muellers’ house in Oldenburg and was on his way back to Wilhelmshaven, a distance of less than fifty kilometres via Rastede and Varel; while Franz Winter in U201 was in position 50 degs 40' N, 7 degs 20' E, steering SSE, making-good ten knots with a running battery-charge from both diesels and ETA Wilhelmshaven 0930.
Winter lowered his binoculars, used a scrap of absorbent paper to clean their front lenses. Hohler, officer of the watch, had just queried whether they’d make it into the Jade by that time and at this speed; he told him, ‘You’d have found it in my night orders, if you’d taken the trouble to read them, that at five o’clock the charge is to be broken and speed increased to fifteen knots.’
‘Jawohl, mein Kapitan.’
One didn’t argue with one’s skipper – certainly not with this one – but he thought it hadn’t been in the night order book when he’d come on watch; in any case he’d be out for the count at five a.m. They were working two-hour watches – he, Neureuther the first lieutenant and Kantelberg the navigating officer – thus had two hours on watch and four hours off, round the clock. With occasional interruptions in the form of alarms or sightings, leading sometimes to action, they’d been doing this for the past three weeks, and it was a magnificent thought that one would be getting the whole of this next night in the sack. An early one, at that, please God. Knowing damn well that in practice you never did and that it had damn-all to do with any God. On the last day of every patrol you swore you would, but midnight of the ‘first night in’ invariably saw you still celebrating in the bar.
Celebrating what? The fact of having returned – survived yet another patrol? Being now nineteen years of age, at sea in submarines since clocking-up seventeen, having maybe a decent chance of reaching twenty?
Winter had his glasses up again: swivelling slowly as he swept across the bow then down the port side as far as the beam or a little farther. The seascape, nightscape abaft the beam could be left to the two seamen lookouts in the after end of the bridge. The looking-out primarily for enemy submarines, which tended to be active in these waters, between the mine-belts: the boat that spotted the other first was the one that got home.
New minefields permitting, of course.
Not that one took such a fatalistic view of it. Although aware that according to the statistics one’s chances were roughly fifty-fifty every time. Better than that maybe in this boat, with a skipper as experienced and competent as Franz Winter. A rock of a man, was Franz. So thoroughly committed to his duty and the service of his country – and in particular to the submarine service – that there were jokes made and circulated about him, as the automaton with the one-track mind, also as ‘the bison’. In fact he was as highly respected as any U-boat CO you’d ever heard of – by his own officers and crew, at any rate, those who knew him and served under him. Do the job as it should be done, according to his precepts, and he’d support you through thick and thin; fail in it or shirk it, you didn’t stay long with ‘old Franzi’.
His subordinates wouldn’t want you to, either.
Emil Hohler was maintaining a bare-eyed lookout while wiping his own glasses. You needed to quite often in this salt sea-mist, as well as occasional bursts of spray as she dipped her stem lance-like into the long, low swells, tossing a few bathfuls of it back over her grey length, the solid white flood rushing over and inside the casing to burst against the base of the tower and stream away over her flanks.
Glasses up again: sweeping steadily across the bow. The wind was of the boat’s own making, a ten-knot wind from right ahead therefore, and the motion regular, the grumble of her 1200-HP diesels seemingly in rhythm with it. He’d often thought how he’d miss all this, when he left it – as he’d have to one day, obviously. But years and years ahead, as an old man, whatever he might have done with his life between now and then, he guessed he’d hear in his sleep the thump and flood of sea over the hull and through the casing, only a few metres below your feet at any time, and in the rougher stuff a lot less than that, the noise and the power of it, rearing whiteness pounding aft from her plunging stem, swirling around the gun down there and bursting over, while solid green ones mounted to drop on you in ton weights. Old man waking and telling himself, That was how it was, was my life, was me, one time…
‘Going down.’ Skipper lowering his glasses. ‘Shake me for anything at all.’
Meaning he’d sooner be woken and/or have the boat dived for a seagull or a Flying Dutchman than be left to sleep and the boat continue on the surface when it might turn out to be an enemy. It was entirely possible, all too easy, to see things and dismiss them as figments of the imagination – which they often were – but the truth was that a few seconds’ delay in reacting to that ‘figment’ might prove to be the last seconds of existence for the boat and her crew of thirty-two seamen and stokers and four officers. It was one of the themes on which old Franzi tended to hold forth.
The five o’clock dead reckoning position put them twenty-five nautical miles NNW of Heligoland, sixty-five miles from Wilhelmshaven. The ETA could be amended or confirmed when Heligoland was abeam; meanwhile the charge was broken and revs increased to bring her up to fifteen knots. Kantelberg – navigator, Oberleutnant – had the watch at this time, having taken over from Neureuther at four a.m. Franz Winter, who’d been at the chart table checking speeds, distances and tidal streams, joined his first lieutenant now at the wardroom table, where A.B. Thoemer, wardroom messman, had just set down mugs of a coffee-like liquid and a plate of biscuits. Winter had had three hours’ uninterrupted sleep, which for him was a lot: he told Neureuther, as he dumped himself into the canvas chair in which no-one else ever sat, reached for a biscuit and crammed it into his mouth with the flat of his hand, that it looked as if the DR position would turn out to be spot-on, which after a run of about 600 nautical miles from the Pentland Firth was not at all bad.
He took a swig of coffee, then went on munching the biscuit. The cement-mixer routine, Neureuther had heard it called. Cement well in evidence as Winter added, ‘That is, if the log’s behaving itself.’
‘One might reasonably assume so, sir.’
‘A log of the same type made monkeys of us off Liverpool on one occasion, if you remember. That one had had all my trust until it decided to chuck its hand in – eh?’
A smile on his first lieutenant’s long, narrow face. ‘Remember the occasion well, sir.’
During Winter’s time in command of a ‘C’, a minelayer, that had been. Neureuther had been his first lieutenant then; Winter had brought him with him to U201 when he’d transferred to her. While not exactly outstanding – as von Mettendorff had been, for instance – he was competent, hard-working and loyal, the ship’s company respected him and Winter trusted him.
‘How long d’you guess we’ll stay in, sir?’
‘No idea at all. What the devil they’re playing at… Recalling boats from patrol and not relieving them with others suggests some change of strategy. One possibility for instance would be transferring us to work with the Hochseeflotte – conceivably therefore some kind of fleet action.’ Pausing to light a cigarette, expelling smoke, which the diesels’ powerful suction instantly snatched away. ‘Talk of an armistice – which some were doing before we left, if you remember – well, sending most of us back out, whatever it’s for, at least it’s not bloody surrender.’
‘But fleet action – if that’s what’s in the wind – a submarine trap, they’d most likely want us for – we might be too late for it now?’
Winter shifted in his chair; glancing to his left past the chart table into the central control-room, then the other way. Back to Neureuther: leaning forward, forearms on the table, staring at him fixedly under shaggy greying brows – the legendary ‘bison’s stare’. Growling, ‘Wouldn’t mind if we were, Neureuther. Two reasons – no, three, it one includes the usual one that we’re overdue for docking. Bigger reason is – how to put this… See – if there’s to be an armistice, rendering all we’ve done in the past five years plain damn futile, I’d as soon call it a day, be done with it. May surprise you that I should say this, but – we’ve not dishonoured ourselves, you know!’
What surprised Neureuther was that he was hearing this at all. Right out of bisonic character as well as custom, principle…
Bison stubbing out his cigarette. Shoulders hunched. ‘Thank God we haven’t.’ A scowl: ‘So who has?’ Another glance left and right, shake of the wide head, cutting himself short, thinking better of it. Neureuther watching him curiously – knowing his man, who was most certainly not given to baring his soul; had never been known to do so. At least, not to an inferior. Therefore, guessing that he had to be seeing this as a moment of crisis for him personally as well as for the Navy and for Germany. Continuing, ‘Is the Hochseeflotte up to it, I wonder. Intelligence informs us that the British and Americans are in fine fettle and eager for a fight. British learnt some lessons they needed to learn at the Skaggerak confrontation – and now they have this fellow Beatty at their head. Thinks he’s a latter-day Nelson, apparently. Doesn’t matter whether he is or not, he thinks he is and it seems he’s sold the notion to others. The word is that the Grand Fleet is on its toes and exceptionally well trained. You know me, Neureuther – or you should by this time – you know I’m not disposed to run from any fight—’
A shake of the head. Eyes startled…
‘Or to blather as I’m doing now, eh? Well, don’t quote me, not a word of it. But to take on a first-class, well-led fighting force with a bunch of demoralised near-incompetents—’
‘As bad as that?’
Winter drained his mug. He was both smoking and eating now, having pushed another biscuit in. You’d have thought he’d choke. But a shrug was the only answer he was giving. Neureuther tried after a pause: ‘You said three reasons, sir?’
‘The third is personal.’ Jaw up again, as in meeting a challenge, disbelief or censure… ‘Yes. I’d sooner have a few weeks in harbour than – whatever’s contemplated. For the private reason – telling you this, but no-one else at this stage.’ Neureuther gesturing his assent to secrecy, leaning closer, Winter muttering, ‘Extremely private and personal. Concerns a young lady whom I’ve been seeing in recent months. You’ve met her, I think. Yes, you have. Well – I believe the time has come to – shall I say, formalise our relationship. If she’ll have me, of course.’ The bison stare again, but a hint of mockery in it: ‘Surprised you, have I? Well, I’m a human being, Neureuther. Never occurred to you, I dare say. Wish me luck, eh?’
Off Heligoland between 0630 and 0640, after calling up the signal station by light, establishing U201’s identity and amending the Wilhelmshaven ETA to 0920. Dead reckoning had been spot-on, and tides in the next few hours would be favourable. Having passed this message, Signalman Kendermann began taking in one from FdU at Wilhelmshaven to the effect that on her arrival U201 was to berth on Sudwestkai in the Verbindungshafen, and requesting information as to the boat’s fuel state, torpedoes remaining, major defects if any, men sick or injured if any. In effect Winter was being asked whether there was anything that might prevent or delay him from sailing as soon as he’d re-fuelled, taken on fresh water and stores and embarked torpedoes.
Kendermann lowered the lamp with which he’d been acknowledging the message word by word, at the same time calling it out for Boy Telegraphist Rehkliger, below them in the tower, to scribble down. Winter – and Hohler, who had this six-to-eight watch – had both been reading it as it came stuttering in, and as the station signed off Winter shouted down to the boy, ‘Take it to the first lieutenant, ask him to draft an answer.’
Fog still thickened the darkness. Without certain lights on shore, the island itself wouldn’t yet have been visible, although a lit and identifiable buoy which they’d passed within fifty metres of had given them their exact position. And still the long, low swell, 201 rocking over it, diesels rumbling, the stink of their exhaust obnoxious on what was now a light following wind. But definitely no happy home-coming, this. Those questions apart, the Verbindungshafen was plainly the most convenient temporary accommodation for a boat that wasn’t expected to remain in port for more than a few hours. You wouldn’t even be getting ashore for a hot bath, by the looks of it.
Neureuther came up and offered the skipper his draft reply. He’d have had to have gone down into the tower’s light to check it, though; he shook his head, growled, ‘Send it.’ Kendermann with the lamp’s sighting-tube already at his eye, beginning to call the station, give them the answers that would be passed to FdU in Wilhelmshaven by sea-bed land-line. Neureuther, on the starboard side of the bridge, said quietly to Winter, ‘Not the best of prospects, sir.’
A grunt. Bison with one shoulder jammed against the for’ard periscope standard for support against the boat’s rhythmic pitching, while the lamp leaked its long and short flashes blindingly, drawing pinpoints of acknowledgement from shore. Winter told Neureuther, ‘Pass the word – after berthing, all hands are to remain on board until we know what’s wanted of us.’
Schillig Roads, the extensive fleet anchorage in the broad entrance to the Jade river, this top end of it about midway between Schillighorn and Alte Mellum, was crowded with ships of the High Seas Fleet. Adding to the impression of massive, concentrated power, when Neureuther came up to take over the watch at 0800, two Zeppelins were passing low over the lines of anchored battleships and battle cruisers. Light cruisers too – notably the 4th Scouting Group, their flagship Regensburg lying closer than any other to 201’s track inshore of them – inshore on the western, Schillig side. The Zeppelins were flying seaward – a scouting mission, Neureuther guessed. Checking all round and especially ahead, then switching back to what he could see of the battle squadrons, shifting his binoculars’ focus from ship to ship and identifying most of those whose profiles showed up well enough, with no overlap and reasonably hard-edged in the growing but still fog-laden early light. Hipper’s flagship Baden; and the 3rd Battle Squadron, including the modern – well, five-year-old – Konig and Markgraf. Beyond them – view changing rapidly as 201’s diesels drove her southward still at fifteen knots – Derfflinger and Von der Tann, battle cruisers, Derfflinger the more modern of the two and the larger, 28,000 tons as compared to Von der Tann’s less than 20,000, but both with the long, low look that made them easy to identify. And there now, the 1st Battle Squadron – Thuringen, Ostfriesland, Helgoland – and two others overlapping. One of those would be the Oldenburg. All of them as static as models set in putty, which in this light was the colour of the surface anyway, surface with virtually no movement on it except for 201’s wash rolling out on her quarters. The dreadnoughts Friedrich der Grosse and Kaiserin there; beyond them, the Konig Albert – and those were only the fringe of it, those to which one was passing closest and with open lines of sight. Neureuther lowered his glasses, remarked to Hohler: ‘All raising steam, you’ll have noticed. What for, one might ask.’
Dark columns of funnel-smoke from the big ships were rising vertically, that pre-dawn breeze having dropped away. The smoke would be visible a long way offshore, he thought, once the light improved. He nodded to Hohler: ‘All right, I’ve got her.’
‘I’ll get my breakfast, then.’
‘May have left some for you.’ Running a hand around his jaw: he’d shaved for the first time in three weeks, and his face felt naked in the cold, salt-damp air. Glasses up again, examining the river ahead, picking up the buoys that marked the channel at approximately 1,000-metre intervals and were identifiable by their flashing fights. Schillig Roads falling back on the quarter now, and 201’s course of 195 degrees due to be altered by fifteen degrees to port after – checking again – two more pairs of fit buoys.
Winter came up, stood with his arms akimbo, staring round. As bare-faced as his first lieutenant; he’d been up here until about half an hour ago, had gone below for breakfast and a shave. A hand up to the new sensitivity of his jaw too; binoculars up then, checking ahead initially – buoy-spotting – then astern at the now distant, indistinct mass of battle-wagons – only the smoke columns seemingly solid from this distance and fine of sight, massive supports to the ceiling of cloud.
He turned back, checked the time.
‘Come down to three hundred revs. We’re well up to schedule.’
‘Aye, sir.’ Neureuther stooping to the voicepipe, passing the order while thinking about the skipper and that strikingly pretty girl. Had to be all of fifteen years younger than him. Extraordinary, really: year upon year of never showing the least interest in any female, then – crunch, falling for a kid like that one. Even contemplating marriage, going by those few words he’d uttered. But that was Franz Winter, Neureuther supposed – doing nothing by halves: he either went for it flat-out or he bloody didn’t.
Like the way he ate, come to think of it.
Putting his glasses up again, he wondered how the girl would react: whether maybe she’d be expecting it, might have her answer ready for him.
Extraordinary, anyway, that burst of loquaciousness. Criticism of – well, un-named persons – one might guess, political – as well as the private revelation.
Iron crust crumbling, suddenly? What the end of a war did to a certain kind of man, when for years on end it had possessed him absolutely?
The girl, though: he wondered again – with her looks, get just about any man she wanted. How’d Franzi take it if she turned him down?
Voicepipe: engineer officer requesting permission to come up on the bridge. He was a warrant officer, name of Muhbauer, tall and bald, with hands the size of shovels. Winter had nodded, and Neureuther called down, ‘Permission granted.’ Muhbauer, Neureuther guessed, would be bringing with him a list of engine defects, reasons 201 definitely needed at least a few days in harbour for repairs and maintenance; he’d been working at it on and off for days.
The gathering on this basin’s Sudwestkai included Kapitan zu See Schwaeble, Winter noticed, as well as a few fellow COs including Waldo Rucker and the tubby Willi Ahrens. He’d expected to be met by Michelsen himself: if U201 was being denied any stand-off at all, as all the indications suggested, you’d think the head man would make himself available to explain it.
Heaving-lines had arced across and were being hauled in, dragging hemp breasts over at the bow and stern.
Springs were coiled ready on the stone jetty, would be passed over and secured as soon as the breasts were made fast. Hardly worth bothering with springs, maybe, if the boat was only to be here for an hour or two.
He stooped to the voicepipe, called down, ‘Finished with main engines and motors. Open fore hatch.’ Glancing up to the wireless mast, from which victory pendants for this patrol’s four sinkings flew – or rather dangled, like stockings on a washing-line, in the near-windless air. He turned back to where a gangplank was about to be swung over. Reflecting that this should have been a happy, satisfying moment, as returns from successful patrols always had been: but it wasn’t, nobody looked happy, and he, Franz Winter, certainly didn’t feel it.
He’d get a call through to her anyway. Have a brief word, explain…
The springs – steel wire rope – were being hauled over. Hohler, amongst whose jobs was that of casing officer, was supervising all that, with Leading Seaman Lehner, second coxswain, in charge aft. U201 at rest, for the time being. Winter told Neureuther as the gangway thumped down, bridging the four-metre gap between casing and dockside, ‘I’ll go down and shake it out of him.’
Shake it out of Schwaeble, he meant. The boat wasn’t in any state for entertaining senior officers, and he, Winter, wasn’t in a mood for it either.
Von Mettendorff, he saw then: tall figure at the rear of the throng, tall enough to see over others’ heads, tossing him a salute. Two stripes on that sleeve. Well, good for him. His Coastal must be in need of repairs, or they’d have turned him round and sent him out again. Winter climbed over the side of the bridge on that starboard side and down iron rungs to the catwalk, edging around it to the fore-casing. Schwaeble was already halfway across the plank; Winter saluted, then accepted the offered handshake as he stepped on board.
‘As always, glad to have you back, Winter. Another – what, twelve thousand tons, was it?’
‘About that. May I ask how long we have in port now?’
‘You read the signs, eh?’
‘Would have had to be pig-stupid not to.’
‘Yes. Well – FdU will brief you. He was taking a call from Berlin, couldn’t leave the office, I’m to take you to him right away.’
‘May I give my first lieutenant at least some idea of what our programme is?’
‘Oh.’ A glance at his watch; a sigh, then. ‘If you’ll tell him quietly and briefly, we don’t have time to waste. But a vanload of fresh provisions is on its way – in case you need to stay out there longer than we expect. That’s all: you’ve enough fuel remaining, and four torpedoes – right? More than you’ll need. Rather hope you won’t need any. Shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours at most – thing is, you’re the only boat we have that’s currently fit to do the job, the timing of your return’s thus highly fortuitous. FdU will explain it all, so—’
‘What is the job, sir?’
Schwaeble sighed, lowered his voice. ‘In a word, mutiny, in the Hochseeflotte. It’s a shameful and dangerous situation – as FdU will explain. All right?’
‘A word to Neureuther, if I may, sir.’ Turning, beckoning to him, he gave him the gist of it. ‘Means we can expect to be back alongside in a couple of hours, apparently. Exactly what we’ll be doing I can’t say. Some kind of police action, by the sound of it. Oh, there’s a vanload of fresh provisions on its way, and I’m to be briefed now by FdU.’ He was breaking off, but then remembered: ‘Look here – Muhbauer’s asked me for compassionate leave – I said yes – his wife was giving birth just when we sailed. But as this is only a few hours’ work there’s no time to find a replacement, tell him he must hang on.’
He followed Schwaeble across the plank. On the stone quay, Ahrens’ bulky frame approached. ‘Franz—’
‘Sorry, Willi. See you later, if—’
‘Must speak to you, Franz. It’s most urgent.’
Schwaeble waved him off. ‘Later, Ahrens.’
Kommodore Andreas Michelsen, FdU – Fuhrer of U-boats – was a head taller than either Schwaeble or Franz Winter; also slimmer and greyer, with piercing blue eyes under jutting brows. He came around his desk to shake hands with Winter, asking Schwaeble, ‘Have you explained the position to him?’
‘Only in outline, sir.’
‘Very well. Sit down, Winter. I should have opened this with my congratulations on yet another successful patrol – and apologies for the fact we can’t quite let you rest on your laurels yet.’ He’d resumed his seat behind the desk. ‘Schwaeble – I’ll brief him. Perhaps you’d get through to Henniger, suggest he embarks his men and makes a start.’ To Franz Winter then, ‘From the time you leave this office, can I assume you’ll have 201 on her way within, say, thirty minutes?’
‘If no special preparations are required, sir. And bearing in mind we’ve been three weeks at sea, my crew are overdue for stand-off and the boat for docking.’
‘That prompts an important question. Can you rely on your crew absolutely?’
Winter felt and showed surprise. ‘If I couldn’t, I’d say I was unfit for command.’
‘Good answer.’ FdU looked at Schwaeble. ‘Captain, go ahead, tell Henniger to mark time outside, he’ll be joined by U201 in about forty-five minutes. Winter – listen. It’s a sad and sorry tale, and I’ll make it brief.’ The door closed behind Schwaeble; Michelsen pushed a wooden box across the desk. ‘Smoke?’
‘No thank you, sir.’
The Kommodore helped himself to a cigar, put a match to it and told him with the smoke wreathing from his lips, ‘We have mutiny in the Hochseeflotte. In several of the battleships, but the trouble at the moment seems to be centred on the Thuringen. I should explain: the purpose of the fleet’s assembly here in the Schillig Roads is that Vice-Admiral von Hipper is intending to launch a fleet action against the British. A briefing of admirals and ships’ captains was held on board the Baden last night, finalising details. Essentially, there are to be attacks by cruiser squadrons with destroyer escorts on the Flanders coast and in the Thames estuary – shore bombardments as well as dealing with whatever shipping’s encountered. This will have the effect of drawing the British out: their aim will be to cut the Hochseeflotte off and force a fleet action. Hipper will sustain losses, obviously, but I’ve deployed U-boats across the southern North Sea and especially in the Terschelling area, and a sizeable new minefield has been laid. The importance of all this, the basis of it, is that armistice terms are being discussed between Berlin, Washington, London and Paris, and by demonstrating that our Navy at least is still very much to be reckoned with, the terms of any agreement should be much less to our disadvantage than would be the case if we just sat around and allowed the damn government to sell us out. Even if victory is not achieved, even if our losses are severe, we’ll have shown them that we’re a nation to be bargained with, rather than dictated to.’
Winter nodded. ‘Sound thinking, sir.’
‘I’ve explained it to that extent so you’ll understand the importance of crushing this damn mutiny. Which I’ll also describe to you. First – well, signs of trouble have been growing in recent weeks; yesterday sailors were rioting in the streets of Kiel, and here in Wilhelmshaven, when preparing to move the big ships out into the Roads, several hundred men from Derfflinger and Von der Tann simply walked ashore. Shore patrols soon rounded them up and returned them to their ships – they’re mostly sheep, you’ve only to arrest the ringleaders and the rest cave in – so those two and the rest of ’em moved out, they’re at anchor out there now. But – for instance – I mentioned Hipper’s conference last night, on board Baden; when the captain’s boat was called away in Thuringen, to take him to the flagship, the boat’s crew hid themselves, ignored the pipe. Of course he got himself over there, but that’s the mood, and apparently it’s spreading, heightened now by rumour of the impending Flottenvorstoss, to which they’re referring as “The Death Ride”. The swine are waving red flags, crowding their ships’ upper decks, cheering President Woodrow Wilson and the Russian revolution and whatever else they can think of – and in Thuringen they’re preventing access to machinery spaces, shutting-off steam to the capstan to prevent her weighing anchor, venting steam-pressure from her boilers, and so forth. Oh, and a message was flashed from Thuringen to Ostfriesland, flagship of the First Squadron, stating that her captain was no longer in control.’
‘Well…’
A nod as he dropped ash from his cigar into a brass ashtray. ‘There’s trouble also in the Konig, Oldenburg, Markgraf and Friedrich der Grosse. Probably others too, but those we know of. Anyway, it’s hoped that breaking the mutiny in one ship should break it or avert it in the others, and for this Thuringen is to be the target. Marines are being embarked in two harbour tenders, steam transports. Escorted by you, they’ll board her and arrest the leaders, while you stand off with your tubes trained on her to ensure compliance. When they see we mean business to that extent, we very much hope it may bring them to their senses.’
‘If by chance it doesn’t, am I to fire on her?’
The Kommodore tapped off more cigar ash. ‘When they see that you’re prepared to, they’ll give in, and you return to harbour, escorting the tenders, in which the ringleaders will be brought ashore under Marine guard and locked up. Better have your gun manned, incidentally.’
‘But I must be prepared to fire – fire a torpedo, say – if they don’t give in?’
‘You must act in a manner that makes it plain you will do so if necessary.’
‘So in actuality, I’ll be bluffing?’
‘Nothing of the sort! You’ll assess the situation and its likely outcome, use your own savvy and act accordingly.’
‘Then I am authorised to open fire if they don’t surrender. May I have it in writing?’
‘I can’t see how that would help. To be bound by explicit orders in a situation of such an unprecedented kind could only limit your options. Whereas leaving it to your judgement – as a senior U-boat commander of considerable experience—’
‘Sir, I’ve no experience at all of firing on my own countrymen or sinking a major unit of our own fleet. If I am required to do so—’
‘Mutineers, Winter, are customarily shot or hanged. Whatever in your assessment may seem necessary, you are empowered to proceed with. But time’s short now, so…’
A gesture, indicating that he’d now said as much as needed to be said. Winter thinking about it, Michelsen holding the bison’s glare through a drift of cheroot smoke. Winter tried, ‘With respect, sir, may I discuss this with Vice-Admiral von Hipper?’
‘I would have suggested it myself, but he’d be difficult to find. He had transferred his flag from Baden to the Kaiser Wilhelm II – alongside here. So we were informed – by Chief of Staff von Trotha, I believe.’ Kaiser Wilhelm II was a disarmed pre-dreadnought battleship, vintage 1897, relegated to service as a headquarters and accommodation ship. Michelsen continuing, ‘An attempt at contacting him an hour ago, however, drew blank. He had been on board Kaiser Wilhelm, but, well, seems he may be touring the fleet, assessing the situation for himself. In any case, action has to be taken, the mutiny has to be nipped in the bud, you’re the man to do it and the time for it is now!’
Winter got to his feet. If he’d held out longer he’d have begun to look like a mutineer himself. ‘Very well, sir.’
‘Good. And good luck. An enormous amount hangs on it. Remember that whatever you do, you do for the sake of Germany.’
Thuringen lay beam-on to her sister-ship Helgoland, which was a cable’s length away to starboard. Three-funnelled, displacing just over 20,000 tons, 550 feet long, crew of about 1,000, main armament of a dozen twelve-inch guns and fourteen six-inch. Actually, five-point-nines, same calibre as the gun on U201’s fore-casing: which was manned now, to the extent that its seven-man crew were crouching immediately abaft it and had the ready-use ammunition lockers open.
But those were handsome, powerful-looking ships. Neureuther had commented to that effect, and Winter, with his binoculars trained on Thuringen as 201 came up abeam of her, growled, ‘Fine ship, certainly. Only a pity about the rabble on her decks.’
Low grey sky, grey-brown river, misty haze of distant greenish seascape to the north. Still no wind, the columns of funnel-smoke from the anchored battle-fleet rising vertically, black against the surrounding murk.
Winter lowered his glasses, told the coxswain – at the wheel in the bridge here with him – ‘Starboard ten, Muller.’
To circle widely around Thuringen’s bow, having on the way past her seen a considerable proportion of her crew milling around on her decks – even on the quarterdeck, where off-duty seamen weren’t ever allowed. They were all over her: and slovenly-looking, dressed like tramps, a few waving red flags.
The ship herself looked filthy too, Neureuther saw. Others they’d passed had been in similar condition.
‘Ten of starboard wheel on, sir.’
‘Ease to five.’
The end of the reversal of course would bring her nosing into the 200-metre gap between Thuringen and Helgoland, about midway between the two – between their anchor cables, say, which at this stage of the tide were growing northward. His intention being to aim her and her bow torpedo tubes directly at Thuringen. The steamboats bringing the Marines being still some way back, on Thuringen’s quarter, half a mile away; he’d he there in full view of the mutineers with his tubes trained on them, during the boarding vessels’ approach on her other side.
‘Stop both. Out engine clutches.’
Neureuther passed the order down, heard it acknowledged a couple of seconds before the diesels ceased their pounding.
Silence, but for the swish of water along her sides, and distant shouting.
‘Engine clutches out, sir.’
‘Slow ahead port.’
On her motors now, for the sake of manoeuvrability – the diesels couldn’t be put astern, for instance – and using the port screw only at this stage to assist the rate of turning, the submarine’s long forepart at this moment pointing at Helgoland’s foc’sl, swinging on past her for’ard twelve-inch turret – bridge upperworks then, the port-side turrets and casemates, triple funnels at the midway point between her masts, then the after control position, stern twelve-inch turret and length of quarterdeck. Lounging spectators were moving to the ship’s side to gawp at the submarine as she swung. Still turning: open water ahead for half a minute, the southward gap of open river with small craft moving on it, and the two battle cruisers hazy at a distance of a couple of miles or so. Now Thuringen was in her sights as the swing slowed.
‘Stop port. Midships and meet her.’
‘Stop port, sir. Meet her.’ Meaning, put on port helm to check the turn, hold her on her present heading, point of aim for any torpedo or torpedoes that might be fired, halfway between the for’ard twelve-inch turret and her stem – in other words the foc’sl, crew’s accommodation. Winter with his glasses up again, watching the drift of mutineers across her decks.
‘Slow astern together.’
‘Slow astern together, sir. Ship’s head two-one-five.’
Motors running astern to take the way off her, hold her in this clearly threatening position while the tenders brought their Marines up on Thuringen’s port side. Shouldn’t be long now, getting there.
Neureuther reported loudly, sharply, ‘Helgoland’s six-inch training on us, sir!’
Winter took a look at her – bare-eyed, no need for glasses – they were in fact closer to Helgoland than to Thuringen. By the same token, the threat directed at 201 was point-blank.
‘Signalman!’
Kendermann – diminutive, red-haired – in his customary position on the port side, within reach of the signal lamp in its bracket, whipped round, and Winter told him – turning away again to continue watching events on Thuringen – ‘Make to Helgoland, train all guns fore and aft.’
‘Aye, sir…’
Lamp already clacking, calling, and getting an answering flash almost immediately from the battleship’s signal deck, after end of her bridge. It should work out all right, Neureuther was telling himself, if her officers and/or loyal crew members, especially NCOs, could re-assert their control of her armament. They might not even have known they’d lost it, or been in the process of losing it. Winter had to be banking on that, he supposed. Couldn’t do more than hope, though: could be blown out of the water in split seconds if mutineers were in even partial control – as well as prepared to escalate the situation to such a degree of enormity.
Clashes ceasing, as the brief message was received and acknowledged. Now, proof of that pudding… Winter, Neureuther noted, not having ordered his own gun’s crew to man, load and train it on Helgoland – as he might have done, and Neureuther thought he probably would have, despite the risk of considerably worsening the confrontation.
Winter hadn’t even glanced again at the Helgoland.
But – Christ…
Glasses up, and actually holding his breath. Helgoland’s port-side turrets moving – training fore and aft. He told Winter, who was still concentrating on Thuringen, ‘Helgoland’s complying, sir!’
A shrug of the heavy shoulders. As if he’d known she would. He was, Neureuther thought, not by any means for the first time, a quite exceptional man. He had his glasses up again, focused on the masthead of the first tender bringing its load of Marines up on Thuringen’s port side aft, masthead momentarily visible above the stern turret, hidden now behind a taller superstructure, the after control and searchlight position. Also, a sudden rush of action on the battleship’s decks: officers and others clearing the quarterdeck of mutineers, sending them scurrying for’ard and following-up determinedly, officers with pistols in their hands and others – chief and POs, seamen too – with dirks and cutlasses. Mutineers were vacating even the fo’csl deck, diving for the hatchways; and some, who initially might have thought they’d stand their ground, were being arrested or knocked down and sat on. And the Marines whose arrival had triggered this had got aboard: helmeted and with bayonets fixed, making a clean sweep of it.
‘Didn’t need us here.’ Winter lowered his glasses. ‘FdU called ’em sheep. I say they’re bloody vermin.’