FOR SIX DAYS and nights the Vulkan drove west and south round the bleak coast of Iceland. There was neither light during the day, nor even a glimpse of a star at night, and throughout that incredible journey the weather reached such a pitch of fury and destructive vehemence that the ship seemed to have been condemned to a nightmare of wind and mountainous seas. Since the first encounter with the solitary iceberg the weather had steadily worsened, so that as they battled blindly round Iceland’s North Cape the wind which screamed down from the Arctic reached over one hundred knots, and the waves towered over the weather side and curled their overhanging crests in readiness to strike her open decks and send her yawing on to her beam.
The men had stopped wondering at each mounting onslaught, and were no longer capable of thought of any kind. They went on watch, clinging together like frightened children, and waited for their spell of duty to end. Then, sapped of all resistance, they fell into their sodden bunks, or lay without feeling on the canting decks. Even then they were not safe from the urgent whistle from the Deck Watch. One of the boats was torn free of its davits and flung like matchwood across the bulwarks. Wires parted, and canvas dodgers were blown to nothing, seconds after replacement. Numb and senseless, the seaman spliced, and struggled across the treacherous decks with new ropes and stays, while all the time their tiny, isolated world swung on a giddy pendulum, and tried to trip their tired feet and send them spinning away into the great patches of streaky foam which seethed around the ship like steam.
Sometimes they were dragged on deck to face the weather when the ever-present menace of ice made itself felt in the shape of huge patches of trapped sea-water freezing into fantastic blocks of immovable proportions. With axes and hammers, steam hoses and iron bars, they worked like fiends, sweating beneath their oilskins in spite of the cold which held the ship in its remorseless grip.
After nearly a week of this torment they had at last reached the North Atlantic, and as the waves thundered against the hull they ploughed their way slowly yet steadily eastwards, every turn of the screw taking them nearer and nearer to an alien shore.
The mine stood on the small slipway which overhung the Vulkan’s poop, its dull black sphere stark against the white creaming wake, which, straight and clean, disappeared into the night astern of the racing screw. Heuss stared through the darkness at the mine, fascinated by its long horns, which gave it the appearance of an obscene creature from another world. The last of the mines, he thought. The last of a long field which the raider had laid during the previous four hours, throughout which time the nerves of every man aboard had been stretched to breaking point as the ship steamed along its set course, lookouts peering into the night, and each man gritting his teeth as a fresh mine plummeted down from the stern. Each one would splash into the wake, and instantly vanish. When the water calmed and the raider had gone on her way, the black eggs with their sensitive horns would be floating below the surface, held captive by their sinkers and long cables, to wait with the same terrible patience they had shown since they had been loaded at Kiel.
Lieutenant Kohler held a small shaded lamp against his wrist, peering at his stopwatch and counting the seconds. He staggered against the poop’s swooping, sickening movement, and then said sharply: ‘Right! Release!’
The seamen heaved at their jacks, and the mine trundled on its trolley along the slipway. It faltered, staggered and plunged over the edge.
Heuss gritted his teeth again, but the men who had converted the banana-boat to a raider knew their job. The mine vanished into the gloom. The slipway was empty, and Heuss turned away, suddenly sickened.
The muttering of the seamen about him faded, and even the roar and hiss of the sea seemed to disappear.
He had been on watch the morning when the lookout Braun, had been shot. I shall never forget that moment! He stared down into the water, his hands gripping the guardrail.
There had been endless preparations, and all the time the wretched Braun had sat propped on the mine slipway, his broken leg sticking out in front of him, neat in its splints and bandages. Opposite him, barely yards away, the firing party stood in a swaying line, their heavy Mauser rifles gripped in gloved hands. Two petty officers tied Braun’s hands behind him and took away his cap, so that he looked even more defenceless than before. Kohler and Wildermuth had stood side by side, the latter sick and grey-faced, but Kohler upright and expressionless.
The petty officers dragged a length of rusty chain and tied it quickly to the victim’s waist. His own sinker for the final journey.
It was then that Braun recovered from his state of shocked silence and began to scream. Heuss’s blood turned cold as he relived each agonising second.
‘Don’t let them do it! Tell them I tried to get help, sir!’ His eyes rolled white in his ashen face. ‘For God’s sake help me!’
Kohler drew his sword and raised it above his head. Eight rifles swayed, and then steadied on the writhing figure before them.
There was a ragged volley as Kohler’s sword sliced downwards, and when the wind whipped away the smoke, the slipway was empty. Not even a drop of blood to mark the murder. Only the man’s cap in a petty officer’s hand to show what had happened.
Heuss had pushed into the wheelhouse and then halted. Von Steiger still sat in his chair, his eyes fixed on some invisible point ahead of the bows. Heuss had said, ‘Execution carried out, Captain!’ He could not keep the tremble from his voice.
Von Steiger answered slowly: ‘I could not escape my responsibilities, Lieutenant. And neither, I fear, can you!’
Heuss walked away, and then on impulse returned to stand behind the Captain. ‘Was it absolutely necessary to kill that man, Captain? Haven’t we enough to stomach already?’
‘It became necessary. My officers must be upheld, right or wrong.’
Heuss clenched his fists, conscious of Ebert’s worried glance through the side window. ‘How do you think the men will feel about this, sir?’
‘The men?’ Von Steiger sounded distant. ‘Whatever they feel, they will do as I say!’ He twisted round to face Heuss, who was shocked to see the pain on his tired face. ‘Because, Heuss, we are not playing a game any more! Forget your misplaced sentiment, and you will begin to understand! Of course I want victory with honour! But most of all I want victory! War in itself is evil, and we cannot disguise it by our own stupidity!’
Heuss had continued to stare at him, shocked still more by von Steiger’s calm tone. Inwardly he cursed himself. What was the use of trying to fight this man? He was without a soul. You need none of us, he thought, and our admiration and hate affects you as little as rain upon a stone. He heard himself persist, ‘But, Captain, if we lose our belief in humanity, what else is there?’
Von Steiger had regarded him for several seconds. ‘Nothing, Lieutenant! Nothing at all!’
Heuss shook himself, and once more the sea’s roar intruded on his racing thoughts. He heard the seamen chattering as they scampered back to their messdecks. Perhaps they do not care after all, he thought. Von Steiger seemed to know even the inner thoughts of his men, although he never left the bridge. He was uncanny, like an unravelled legend.
It was a week since they had sunk the little steamer, and they had covered nearly eighteen hundred sea miles in their detour around Iceland. Because of the unbroken cloud they had been unable to use a sextant, and watchkeeping and navigation had become mere guesswork. The ship had made endless alterations of course and speed in the maelstrom of storm and noise, yet here they were, and somewhere across the plunging bows lay Ireland and the northern approaches to England. How did von Steiger do it? Bluff, or some supreme power which made them all so small in his hands?
The ship gathered way and swung on to her new course. A smell of boiled cabbage floated from the galley, and as he passed Heuss heard a seaman describing the minelaying to a cook. ‘. . . a terrible death!’ the voice said.
Heuss faltered, and heard the cook answer with decision. ‘Death? Who the hell cares about that? You would do better to worry about piles or rheumatism in this damned ship!’ The philosophy of the lower deck!
* * * * *
Von Steiger sat in his tall chair, his hands leafing through the Chief Engineer’s latest reports. The ship moved in slow, labouring rolls across the empty grey Atlantic, and beyond the bows, which pointed unwaveringly to the south-west, the horizon was a clear, hard line.
He could hear Niklas breathing heavily at his side, and could smell the coal-dust on his overalls. A good man, he thought. Nearly sixty, and a lifetime afloat in ocean liners, warships and dirty tramp steamers. Now a key man in a commerce raider. He frowned at the neat figures on the soiled paper. They had steamed another one hundred and eighty miles from the place where they had dropped the mines. Coal was being consumed at a terrible speed, and already he felt the sluggish buoyancy of the ship as she devoured her own ballast. The mines, too, had made a difference of some ninety tons aft, and for twenty-four hours the sweating, cursing seamen had shovelled and dragged some of the coal supply to the stern to compensate the loss.
Von Steiger’s head drooped and he shook himself awake angrily. It was strange how easily he had dropped back into his role. There was no escaping it. The ship was not to be a sanctuary after all. In spite of all his hopes he was being made to force his men on, to drive them to the very mission he despised.
Niklas said quietly: ‘You have a lonely command, Captain. I would not take your responsibility for the world!’
‘It is what I was trained for.’
‘It is hard to take a man’s life, Captain!’ The old man looked at von Steiger sadly.
‘Do you think I did wrong?’
Niklas shrugged. ‘I am told that on the Western Front a general or even a colonel can sacrifice a thousand men. Even ten thousand if that is not sufficient! And all for a whim! To test the enemy’s strength perhaps, to hold a position which cannot be held or to fight overwhelming odds!’
‘But was I wrong?’
Niklas picked up his blackened cap. ‘You were committed, Captain. What is one man’s life when we all depend on your strength and instant obedience of your orders? You lead us. You have become part of the ship!’ He shook his head slowly. ‘Only God can give you the final answer to your question.’
Von Steiger dozed and brooded in silence as the ship thrust her way across the deserted ocean. The shipboard noises lulled him like distant music, and the wind sighed around the pitching bridge. He heard the stammer of Morse from the wireless-room and the rattle of shovels from the forward hold.
Suddenly Heuss burst into the wheelhouse, a signal-pad grasped in his hand. His eyes were wild, and von Steiger’s tired brain instinctively flashed a warning.
‘We have just intercepted a signal, Captain.’ Heuss’s voice was flat and hard. ‘Two neutral ships were talking to each other.’
The atmosphere was tense in the wheelhouse, and von Steiger’s eyes flickered as Heuss added, ‘It seems that our mines have had an effect already!’
Ebert gasped aloud, ‘By God, that was quick!’
Von Steiger ignored the interruptions. ‘Read it, Heuss!’ He felt that he knew what was coming, yet Heuss’s tone made his stomach contract.
Heuss read from the pad. ‘The S.S. Isle of Cuba was sunk this morning, whilst making the north-west passage to England. She struck a mine and sank immediately!’
Von Stiger kept his voice even. ‘That is war, Heuss.’
Heuss lifted his eyes, his face white. ‘The Isle of Cuba was a hospital ship, Captain! She was returning from Europe full to the deck-seams with helpless wounded men!’ He shouted at the bridge at large, ‘Is that war?’ Then he laid the signal by von Steiger and walked on to the open bridge-wing. But the cold wind no longer helped him, and he felt unclean.
* * * * *
Von Steiger groaned and stirred in his tall chair. His body was stiff and cold, and he had to rub his hands sharply across his eyes before he could remember what had awakened him. Kohler was peering down at him, his face grey and unshaven in the morning light. Makes him look almost human, he thought vaguely.
‘Ship, Captain! Bearing red four-five!’ Kohler repeated his message, his eyes searching von Steiger’s face.
He jerked out of his weariness, his joints protesting as he levered himself down from the chair. ‘Any details?’
‘Masthead reports that it might well be a freighter, sir. She’s hard to see because there seems to be a lot of rain-squalls around her. But he did get one good bearing on her at the time, and now he has reported that she’s holding her course!’
The telephone buzzed and von Steiger massaged his numb thighs, as Kohler nodded and talked into the mouthpiece.
‘Yes, sir. Freighter. Seems to be steering north-east by north. One funnel, and low in the water.’
Von Steiger bit his lip. The two ships were approaching each other on almost parallel courses. It will make the approach seem all the more natural, he thought quickly.
‘Sound Action Stations, Lieutenant!’ He waited until the bells had begun to jangle, and added, ‘You go to your station now, we may need the torpedoes!’ Into the telephone he said evenly, ‘Let me know instantly she alters course, or shows any sign of alarm.’
‘Ship bearing red five-oh!’ The port lookout could see her already.
He made rapid calculations, ignoring the clatter of feet through the ship and the distant squeak of ammunition hoists. The attack team arrived panting on the bridge, but he hardly gave them a glance. She is probably doing about eight knots, and we are doing a steady fourteen. She will be up to us in a quater of an hour perhaps. He could hear Ebert barking through his telephone on the deck overhead. He would be already swinging his range-finder on to the target, and passing the ranges and bearings to his hidden guns. Heuss and Damrosch were in the wheelhouse at their stations, and he noted briefly that Heuss looked red-eyed, as if he had not slept for days. Damrosch looked fresh and a little dazed, and was watching him like a hawk. A tame hawk, he thought, but strangely reliable.
Heuss was the ship’s signals officer, and was giving his orders in a low voice to his small staff at the rear of the bridge. The signalmen had stripped the canvas covers from the flag locker and had spilled some of their colourful contents on to the deck, the halyards already in their eager hands.
Von Steiger remembered what the Chief Engineer had said. Not like the other command he had held; they had been the cream of the Navy. Well, we shall see, he thought calmly.
How easy it was to drop into this slot. It was as if he had spent all his life on this damned bridge.
He heard Heuss catch his breath, and saw that he had his binoculars trained. With a start he realised that he had not yet looked at the enemy ship. He was getting careless, and that could be fatal.
He rested the powerful glasses against the open door and watched the ship move ponderously across the lenses. About five thousand tons, British by the look of her businesslike outline. She was making heavy weather of the blustering sea, and seemed unable to ride out of the deep troughs which deluged her decks with spray. Well laden, he mused. Probably a straggler from some convoy or other. Making a lot of black smoke from her spindly funnel. That would make her very unwelcome in any convoy, for this was U-boat territory.
Over his shoulder he asked distantly, ‘Is the ship closed up at Action Stations?’
‘Yes, Captain!’ Heuss sounded strained.
‘Well, report it in future, Lieutenant, I am not a mind-reader!’
Lehr, the Coxswain, who had taken the wheel from the quarter-master, shifted his huge bulk and smiled a secret smile. Tension on the bridge already. That was good, he thought. Showed that they were alert for once.
Von Steiger watched the other ship with great concentration. She was close enough now for him to see her high bridge and the small splash of colour beyond, probably the red ensign. British, as he had imagined she would be.
‘Make a signal, Heuss! Ask her name.’ His eyes never wavered from the slow-moving freighter.
The Morse lamp on the wing of the bridge began to clatter noisily. Not too fast, he noted with satisfaction. Merchant ships rarely had a really proficient signalman, and fast naval Morse would be an immediate give-away.
‘What is the name of your ship?’
There was a long pause, and they began to think that the stranger was not keeping a lookout. Then the uneven wink of a powerful lamp stabbed back across the heaving water.
‘What is the name of your ship?’
Von Steiger smiled grimly. A cautious one, this. He was not taking any chances. The lamp began again.
‘Gripsholm, Swedish!’
A long pause, and then: ‘Cardiff Maid.’
There could be no doubt now of her nationality, and von Steiger signalled with his hand towards Damrosch, who licked his lips and then blew a long blast on his whistle.
The Morse lamp began again. ‘Stop immediately! This is a German cruiser!’
Von Steiger could well imagine the consternation on the other vessel’s bridge. The unexpected meeting with another ship after crossing the Atlantic, and almost within sight of home. Then the curt order to heave to, and the German ensign breaking out at the gaff for all to see, and wonder no more.
Damrosch, his eyes wide with excitement, pointed with disbelief. ‘Look, they’re turning away!’
Von Steiger pressed the button by his elbow and overhead a bell rang with brief authority.
A nerve in Heuss’s cheek jumped uncontrollably as one of the big five-point-nines roared out from its sheltered mounting beneath the fo’c’sle. His eyes followed the direction of the invisible shell, and as he watched he saw a tall column of water rise straight out of the sea less than half a cable from the freighter’s bows. He tore his eyes away to watch his signalmen, who, with deft fingers, had shackled on their flags and hoisted them above the bridge, to stand out stiffly in the keen breeze.
‘Stop immediately! Abandon ship!’ Von Steiger had obviously decided not to waste time over this one. Too near the enemy patrols, no doubt.
Heuss licked his lips, suddenly nervous. What was the matter with that fool of a British captain? He was still trying to swing away, and the frothy tail beneath her high counter indicated that his ship was increasing speed and showed no sign at all of complying with von Steiger’s signal. ‘For God’s sake, what’s he doing?’ His voice sounded unnatural. He can’t possibly hope to get away now.
Von Steiger ignored him and bent quickly over the bell mouthpiece of one of his voice-pipes. ‘Ebert? Captain speaking. Open fire with everything you have. As quick as you can!’
Heuss found himself at von Steiger’s side. ‘She may not understand your signal, sir! Is it necessary to murder everyone on board? She can’t escape now!’
Von Steiger lowered his glasses momentarily and turned to face him. His cold eyes gave him a brief but searching appraisal, and then he resumed his study of the Cardiff Maid, which was now practically end on to the Vulkan. Her stern was swaying steeply as she heeled bravely in response to maximum rudder. Von Steiger’s eyes narrowed as he followed the movements of the ant-like figures grouped on her poop. His voice was quiet but cutting.
‘I put down your impertinence to inexperience, Lieutenant! I have no wish to kill helpless men, whatever you may imagine, but I have my duty to consider first! Overhead Ebert’s harsh voice could be heard rapping out orders, and from forward the two guns which would bear swung their slender barrels straight on to their target. ‘Use your eyes, Heuss! He is not running away!’
Heuss lifted his glasses dazedly and peered across the tumbling green water. As his eyes focused on the other ship, he flinched as an orange gash lit up her stern, followed immediately by a loud crack. A shell whined over the raider’s bridge and ricocheted across the wave-tops before exploding in a brown puff of smoke.
‘She has a gun apparently!’ The voice cut into Heuss’s reeling thoughts. ‘The gallant captain intends to——’ The rest of the sentence was cut short by the double explosion from the forward guns. Like an echo, the twenty-two pounder barked out from the poop, and as the freighter’s gun-crew laboured around their puny weapon, the complete salvo tore into the ship’s side and exploded with a deafening roar.
Von Steiger watched carefully as the second salvo left the guns and screamed straight into the other ship. The rear of her bridge erupted in smoke and flame, and, as if sheered off by a giant knife, the tall funnel staggered and then pitched over the side, sweeping away two of the lifeboats as it passed.
There was another crack, and the deck beneath their feet lurched slightly, and Heuss’s nostrils twitched at the pungent smell of cordite.
‘She’s hit us!’ Von Steiger’s face hardened. ‘Damrosch, pass the word to ascertain the damage! Heuss, ring down full speed ahead. ‘I’m going to close with this maniac!’ He spoke into the voice-pipe again. ‘Ebert, shoot for her waterline! This may be excellent target practice for you, but even one of her little shells could do us a real injury at this stage!’
With steady, remorseless fury the raider’s guns fired again and again. The freighter seemed all at once to have changed from a trim, sturdy merchantman to a floating wreck. She was listing slightly starboard, and both her masts had been shot from her decks. The bridge was little more than a tangle of twisted metal, and from her erratic course it seemed likely that the steering had been destroyed. A shell punctured her poop, and with a sullen roar her ammunition locker exploded and flung the defiant little gun high into the air, complete with the pieces of its crew.
‘She’s signalling, sir!’ The petty officer sucked his teeth and read the erratic light through his brass telescope. ‘I am stopped. Am abandoning ship!’
‘About time too!’ Von Steiger pressed the button again, and with one final shot the guns fell silent.
Sub-Lieutenant Seebohm scrambled panting on to the bridge. With a nervous glance over his shoulder at the stricken ship, he saluted. ‘The shell hit us on the starboard bow, sir. Passed right through into the forward hold before exploding. No damage, sir. That hold is full of coal, so there was no harm done.’ He faltered. ‘One of the men was killed, though. Must have touched him as it passed.’ There was wonder in his voice. ‘Hardly a mark on him, sir!’
Von Steiger looked up sharply as a ragged cheer rippled along the forward deck. He snorted, and watched the Cardiff Maid begin to fall heavier into the eager waves. She was quite still now. Heavy and useless. He could see a lifeboat being lowered jerkily down her canting side and some figures already jumping into the water.
‘Muster the first-aid party in the waist. Get all the rope ladders over the side and stand by to pick up every man. I don’t want a single one left behind.’
The raider slackened speed, and glided slowly towards the solitary lifeboat and the cluster of bobbing heads. The surface of the sea was thick with coal-dust and oil, and sprinkled with splintered woodwork, torn spars and the remains of the other boats.
They were very close to the other ship now, and from his bridge von Steiger could see straight down into one of her shattered holds. The grey light gleamed dully on the jumbled shapes of closely packed vehicles, their new khaki paint torn and blistered by the searing heat of the raider’s shells. A good victim. All army transport on its way to the Western Front.
There was a heavy rumble as some huge piece of machinery tore itself loose and crashed through the heeling vessel. She leaned still farther on her side, fragments of her shattered superstructure pitching into the water dangerously near one of the swimmers.
‘Not many survivors.’ He spoke to the bridge at large, his eyes studying the white upturned faces in the lifeboat. ‘That second salvo must have seen to them!’
Heuss leaned limply on the bridge screen, looking across at the sinking ship. It looked so big and helpless now. No defiance, no beauty. Just a broken ship, trying to hide man’s cruelty in the waves.
The lifeboat scraped alongside, and he saw some of the seamen pulling the shocked and dazed survivors up the swaying ladders. Several of the men had jumped down into the boat itself and were tying lines around the shoulders of some of the wounded and motionless figures who could no longer help themselves. Dehler was leaning over the rail, pointing at the other men who were swimming slowly towards the tethered lifeboat. ‘Get those men next! Get a move on, you lazy swine!’
Heuss noticed that the rescued men no longer seemed to have any personality or shape. They merely stared listless at the busy German sailors, and allowed themselves to be helped, cajoled or pushed, like so many puppets.
As one man was being hoisted up the side, the Vulkan swayed heavily in a steep roller, and he swung helplessly against the rough plating. He gave a thin scream, and as he swung clear again Heuss noticed that he had left a red smear on the black paintwork. A cruel splash of colour, which faded and ran in the salt spray even as he watched.
Wildermuth stood at the foot of the bridge ladder, his face tense with excitement. ‘Captain, sir? Shall I bring the Master up to you?’
Von Steiger nodded, and there was a silence in the wheelhouse as the small, grey-headed figure in the sodden blue uniform appeared at the top of the ladder. The gold lace on his sleeves was faded and torn, and his old, weathered face was lined with shock, which made him seem older than time.
Wildermuth snapped at him to move on to the bridge, and the English captain swayed slightly, his face uncomprehending.
Von Steiger stepped forward from his officers and saluted gravely.
Heuss remembered the incident for a long time afterwards.
The silence on the bridge, whilst from the deck below came the urgent shouts of the men and the clang of metal as the guns slid into their housings. From beyond the bridge rail he could hear the agony of tortured steel as the sinking ship began to break in two. But inside the shelter of the bridge screen the small tableau held his attention so that he could hear his own heart beating.
His brother officers. Damrosch, young, eager and too dazed by the brief but savage engagement to control his elation. Wildermuth, self-important, and still scowling because the prisoner did not understand him. Seebohm, anxious and watchful, trying to gauge von Steiger’s mood.
And the Captain. Had they all been dressed in sacking, Heuss knew that von Steiger would have looked every inch a leader. With his fur jacket and black gloves, his cap tilted at a slightly rakish angle where he had caught it with his binoculars, and above all his calm, impassive face, he stepped forward and saluted the vanquished enemy.
In perfect English he said: ‘I am sorry I had to sink your ship, Captain. You fought a brave but hopeless battle. I pity you for your loss, but admire you for your courage. I should like to shake your hand.’ He held it out, his eyes shaded and expressionless.
He had spoken simply, and without emotion. Perhaps, Heuss thought, merely as one seaman speaking to another.
The British captain took the proffered hand and nodded vaguely. ‘It’s a bit of a shock y’see.’ Had the others realised it, he was speaking with a round Yorkshire accent his tone unsteady and apprehensive. ‘I can’t take it all in, y’see.’
At that moment there came a cry from the deck. ‘She’s going! There she goes!’
The Englishman was transformed from that instant. He was no longer a hurt, shocked old man. He was as much a captain as the arrogant German who had shaken his hand, and with a grunt he pushed past von Steiger and climbed up on to the wing of the bridge.
‘Why, the insolent pig!’ Wildermuth stepped forward, his pistol half drawn from his holster, but von Steiger shook his head angrily, his eyes flashing. ‘Leave him! This is his moment. It is all he has now!’
The little Yorkshireman glared down at the listless figures who lay on the raider’s deck, their wet clothing making black shadows on the scrubbed planks. ‘On yer feet, lads! Give the old girl a cheer!’
His men staggered to their feet, and stared first up at the small erect figure of their captain, and then at the great streaming hull which rose slowly from the water until its broken stern pointed straight up at the barren sky. For a moment she hung there motionless, as if unwilling at the last to leave. Then, with a final hissing roar, followed almost at once by the muffled thunder of her exploding boilers, she slid out of sight.
Von Steiger jerked his head. ‘Clear the bridge. Leave the good captain alone for a while!’
Heuss tore his eyes from the great writhing whirpool, its vortex seething with flotsam, and stared at the lonely old man in the corner of an alien ship. His lined face defied description, and the look in his eyes was similar to von Steiger’s when he had joined the ship at Kiel.
Heuss shook his head and stepped into the wheelhouse. He felt that he should have learned something by all this, but he felt as if he had been deceived.