THE MURMUR OF voices died away as von Steiger stepped on to the hold-cover and stood for a moment looking down and around at his ship’s company. In response to the urgent twitter of bosun’s pipes the seamen had thronged aft, and now in the blazing sunlight they stood, packed shoulder to shoulder or clinging to stays and rigging, to watch the slight, white-clad figure of their captain.
Von Steiger saw the lean, sunburned faces, the dispirited, even sullen, expressions, and felt strangely moved. He wondered if this time his words would be enough. They looked too weary and beaten to be receptive to mere oratory.
When he spoke his voice was confident yet quiet, so that those men who were furthest away had to lean forward, their strained faces tense with concentration.
Unexpectedly he said! ‘In a few moments I am sending you to breakfast! After you have eaten you are going to work even harder than you have already, and the first job you must do is to broach Number Two hold!’
A ripple of uneasiness and resentment transmitted itself through the packed ranks, and Heuss, who was watching with the other officers, felt a pang of alarm. This time von Steiger was asking too much. The men were tired, and they were without hope. It would need more than mere words to bind them together again.
Von Steiger continued: ‘I want the coal from that hold for a very good reason. I want to fill the bunkers at once, and in addition I want every unnecessary piece of woodwork stripped from the ship and sent to the stokehold: lockers, bunks, doors . . . everything! The petty officers have lists of gear to be chopped down, and you will, I know, do the rest!’
He paused, and ran his eye over the slowly labouring ship. Since dawn the men had been painting canvas and disguising the ship once again. Deckhouses had been altered, and a false deck cargo had sprung up aft of the bridge. He stared at the empty sea, glittering with a million mirrors, and at the placid sky. So quiet, yet so full of menace.
He faced his crew once more, picking out individual faces which had come to mean so much to him.
‘Men, we are going home, back to Germany!’
There was an electric silence as the faces changed from shocked incredulity to dumb amazement. Then the ship rang with fierce, crazed cheers and wild, even hysterical, cries of delight. Von Steiger raised a hand, and the silence fell instantly.
‘You may know that a British cruiser passed us during the night. I believe she was going to answer an S O S given by a Greek steamer. The cruiser probably thought that the Vulkan was attacking the Greek and wanted to be in at the kill. Whatever the reason, the warship went to her assistance.’ He paused, sensing the anxious faces about him. ‘And that could mean that for a while at least the British steel ring is broken! Give me the coal and the wood, and I will increase speed at once! If required I will drive this ship to the depths! If we return to the Fatherland now, I am sure that no one can speak against us . . .’
He got no further, his voice was drowned by their excited cheering.
He watched them disperse before the petty officers, and walked slowly towards the bridge. He smiled as men reached out to touch him as he passed, but as he reached the foot of the steel ladder he faltered, and Heuss saw the emotion laid bare on his worn face. He had never seen von Steiger so moved or so defenceless, and turned away with something like guilt. As if he had intruded on something private.
* * * * *
Von Steiger watched the vapour-trail thicken as it billowed over the edge of the stained funnel. Below, the stokers were pouring on the precious coal, mixed with hastily lashed bundles of chopped wood. He could feel the ship shaking with renewed life as the revolutions mounted and the sharp stem flung itself into the lazy water. He felt slightly light-headed, like a reckless gambler who has thrown his last coin on the table. It was all a matter of speed and distance now. Once clear of this closely combed area there was a chance. As a last resort he might touch the African coast and cut more timber for the boilers from some secluded forest-land. And there was always the chance of meeting another collier. He frowned, distrusting his unusual optimism. He was glad that the seamen had burst into a fit of shouting and cheering. The trusting, hopeful faces turned upwards towards him had almost been too much for his reserve, and only those standing near him could have heard the tremor in his voice.
They gave me the sweepings of the fleet and the barracks. The Admiral thought that a gesture did not need trained, hand-picked men like von Spee, Count zu Dohna-Schlodien or Karl Nerger had commanded on their victorious sorties into the enemy’s territory. Perhaps he was right. Maybe only the captain did count in the long run. But I would not change these men of mine for the pick of the Imperial Navy now.
He listened to the clatter of shovels and walked to the forepart of the bridge to watch the working party which had been detailed for Number Two hold. He could see the shimmering haze from the coal as it was plucked from the narrow hatchway at the rear of the hold and bundled towards the bunkers. Wet, dangerous and every bag spelling disaster. But the risk was worth while just so long as the work was handled with great care, and he was thankful to see Niklas’s grey head bobbing amongst the crowded figures.
Von Steiger lifted his cup to his lips, savouring the dregs of the coffee. In spite of his regulated, wire-taut mind, he found himself thinking of the girl and what she had done for him.
I have changed beyond all recognition, he thought. Now I want to live, to return home, even if only for my men. There has to be some sort of future. Without hope I had nothing, but she has opened another door for me.
He rubbed his sore eyes and watched the helmsman as he steadied the wheel against the thrust of the madly thrashing screw. I have spent all my life in the Navy, and yet my true memories started to form only with the war. Now they are compressed even further. There is nothing I can recall beyond this ship, this mad, all-demanding search.
He seated himself carefully in the tall chair and allowed his head to nod forward. He could feel the trembling vibration of the hull like the pounding of life-blood, and to its tune fell into the first real sleep he had enjoyed since he had taken command.
Lieutenant Kohler watched him for a few moments and then walked slowly to the wing of the bridge. The sun was hot across his face, but he hardly noticed it. Already his mind was busy with possibilities and plans for his return to Germany. It was not quite as he had hoped, but there was still a chance really to distinguish himself, he considered. After all, when they got to Kiel it was almost certain that the officers would be decorated. That honour, plus a few useful introductions, could assure him of a command of his own. He licked his lips at the bright prospect. A command of his own. Where every man would behave and act in the proper manner, as would befit the crew of his own ship.
High in his sun-baked pod, the masthead lookout peered steadily through his powerful glasses. Port to starboard, and back again. Hellwege, the poop gunlayer, had managed to take over the important position temporarily, after promising some tobacco to Petty Officer Eucken. He grinned to himself and rested the glasses against the lip of the crow’s-nest. Anything was better than humping coal or breaking up woodwork. He blinked as a shaft of sunlight lanced through the lenses and dazzled his eyes. The sea looked very beautiful, he thought. It would be something to talk to Erhard about. I shall ask him again about God. How can we be sure that God really made the sea? He grinned at the prospect of goading that dour bible-scourer.
The light glared through his glasses again, and he cursed angrily. Then he stiffened. Why should the light be reflected from that quarter? He held his breath and levelled the glasses on the purple horizon. Flash. There it was again. A bright flash through the haze, like the sunlight reflected against glass. . . . The plate-glass of a high bridge, for instance.
Hellwege, the stocky, amiable gunlayer, whose only serious thought in life had been about the reality of God, had never tried for the rewards of promotion or fame. He had been content to be a good gunner, and to make the most of the friendship offered by the lower deck. He was unimaginative, even a little stupid, but as he lifted the telephone his voice did not hesitate, nor did it falter.
With his eyes on the horizon he reported: ‘Officer-of-the-watch? Enemy in sight, sir!’
* * * * *
Heuss reached the bridge, panting and breathless. The shrill alarm bells, coupled with the urgent twitter of bosun’s pipes, had come with such suddenness that he could hardly remember his wild dash up the ladders from the wardroom, his journey obstructed by careering figures, cursing seamen and vague impressions of startled eyes and tight mouths.
Lieutenant Kohler greeted him bleakly. ‘Enemy in sight. Bearing red four five. Range about twelve miles.’
Heuss glanced at the compass and then looked around the bridge, which was rapidly filling with men. Extra signal ratings, messengers, machine gunners and all the rest of the attack team. The Coxswain’s giant body momentarily blotted out the sunlight as he made for the wheel and took the spokes, with hardly a glance at the officers. Petty Officer Heiser opened his telescope with a squeaking sound and calmly examined the horizon.
Kohler said: ‘I am going below to my tubes. There will be work for them again!’
Heuss halted him with a raised hand. ‘But the Captain? Where is he?’
‘He has been, and gone! He said to tell you he would be a few minutes.’
Heuss watched the other officer go and half listened to the crackle and bark of voice-pipes and telephones around him.
‘Close all watertight doors and scuttles! Down all deadlights!’ The orders were followed by the dull thuds of steel barriers being dropped to seal the ship into separate sections. The men in each compartment prayed that those in the next would be the ones to be trapped and drowned, not themselves.
‘Main armament closed up!’
Twenty-two pounder closed up!’
‘Damage control party closed up!’
Heuss saw Damrosch moving quickly about the bridge, answering the reports and passing the set orders to every corner of the racing ship. And racing she was. The hull shivered from truck to keel, and without checking he knew that she was trying to exceed even her other dangerous record.
A door clicked behind him, and he turned to salute automatically as von Steiger crossed to the front of the bridge. His hand faltered, and then he said quickly: ‘Ship at Action Stations, Captain! Course north twenty west. Maximum revolutions!’
He forced out the report, his face impassive, yet he could only stare at the Captain. At first he had been unable to understand what was different about him, but now, as he watched the trim figure outlined against the open windows, he saw quite clearly. Von Steiger had changed into a freshly laundered white uniform, and in front of the dull varnish and smoke-stained paintwork he seemed to gleam with an unnatural light. The trousers were knife-edged, the cap-cover starched and on his breast and about his neck he was wearing his full decorations.
Von Steiger moved to the engine-room voice-pipe. ‘More speed, Niklas! This is the real thing this time!’
From far below, the tired voice, ‘How can you ask for more speed? We are up to the red now!’
Von Steiger gave a brief smile. ‘I am not asking, Chief! I am giving you an order!’ He snapped down the cover, dismissing Niklas and the whole of his straining department.
‘Warship is definitely a cruiser, sir! Turning towards us now, bearing constant!’
Von Steiger felt relaxed, even relieved. Hopes, fears and uncertainty had vanished with the appearance of the enemy ship. His training and experience had taken over his body and mind, as he had taken over the ship and its crew, from Heuss to the engine-room staff, and he could throw himself completely and without reservation into the complicated picture as he now saw it.
‘Port twenty! Steer north ten east, Heuss!’ He slung his glasses around his neck and walked on to the open wing to watch the sudden curve in the Vulkan’s frothy wake. No longer creeping stealthily and guiltily across the enemy’s seas, she was tearing through the water like a destroyer, a thoroughbred.
He lifted his glasses again. The haze was still quite thick, but he could clearly see the darker shadow etched into the horizon like a gun-sight. Black tripod mast outlined by a rank of slender grey funnels. That was all there was to see at present, but she would be working up to her maximum speed, too. He calculated calmly. Say twenty-three knots minus sixteen. That meant she would overhaul the Vulkan at a steady seven knots. Within random shooting in thirty minutes and accurate range in another fifteen. If the haze clears it will be rapid fire in half that time, he concluded grimly.
The decks both forward and aft looked unnaturally deserted. He could see a few heads showing from behind the screen around the poop gun, but the big five-point-nines and their crews were still hidden by their false deck cargo and the neatly piled sandbags. The hoses sprayed across the empty decks, the water making queer patterns across the planking before gurgling into the scuppers. No flags flew from the yard or staff, and only the canvas screens remained to remind him of the disguises he had used in the past.
The cruiser was dead astern now, and as she ploughed into a low lying bank of surface haze it looked as if her mast and upperworks were floating disembodied in the air. She was making smoke too, he noticed. No longer the need for stealth or pretence. The cards were down, and the English stokers would be sweating every bit as much as the Germans.
Heuss stood in the wheelhouse doorway. ‘The cruiser is using her transmitter, Captain! Code, of course, but I imagine she is calling up the pack.’
‘Never mind the rest of them, Heuss! We will have enough to keep us occupied here. If we can hold her off until nightfall we will have a good chance.’
‘That is another nine hours at least, sir!’
‘I know.’ He pulled the slender gold watch from his breast pocket. ‘It is now thirteen hundred exactly. But the visibility is not too good, and things might be worse. Do you know, Heuss, that on an Admiralty chart of the Atlantic a pin’s head represents the complete vision of a ship at sea?’
He could see Heuss trying to concentrate on his casual words and not to be affected by the bark of reports from the voice-pipes behind him.
‘Relax, Heuss. There is quite a wait yet!’
Heuss said quietly: ‘We cannot outdistance her! We can only shoot with the poop gun, and that is a pea-shooter by comparison! What will you do, Captain?’
‘I will explain. When action is joined. I will go about and engage her with torpedoes. While she takes avoiding action, I hope that Ebert will score a few good hits. I am depending on that to cool the Englishmen down a little!’
Heuss peered back at the faint shadow astern. ‘You will turn towards her? But, Captain, we cannot match points with a man-o’-war!’
‘We must, Heuss. We have no choice. If we let her overhaul us, she will pound us to pieces at leisure. We cannot even mark her paint if she stays out of range of the twenty-two pounder, as you have observed. We must turn and show our teeth. There is only one other alternative.’ He watched Heuss’s eyes. ‘Scuttle and surrender!’ He saw the anguish working on the Lieutenant’s face and waited.
‘Surrender or die? Is that all we can choose?’
‘Fight, or give the world the news it wants to hear, Heuss! That the cowardly German raider has given in like the treacherous dog it is! Has stuck her gag to a warship, when she has slain and destroyed the innocent and weak without quarter!’ His eyes wrinkled without humour. ‘Is that what we want to allow, my friend?’
Heuss shrugged. ‘My God, I believe you have been waiting for this!’
‘Not waiting, Heuss, merely anticipating!’
* * * * *
The foremost gun of the starboard battery was situated below the fo’c’sle deck and snugly concealed behind one of the steel doors which had been cut into the raider’s side. In the semi-darkness, and enclosed by the sun-heated meal, the atmosphere was stifling and tense. The bolts which secured the shutter were already withdrawn, and as the ship rolled it swung slightly away from the hull, revealing momentarily the sunlit water and the crisp, high wave creaming back from the bow.
Schiller stood at the rear of the long gun, his gloved hand resting on the smooth brass handle which secured the breech. His thick body swayed easily to the ship’s urgent motion and his bare back sweated steadily as the long minutes dragged past. His eyes flickered to the hunched backs of the gunlayer and the trainer who sat on their little stools on either side of the gun, fiddling with their blind telescopes or scratching their sweat-tormented bodies. Behind Schiller the loader sat, collapsed on the steel deck, his arms wrapped round his bony knees, his eyes closed as if in prayer. The ammunition ratings moved restlessly around the oval hatch which connected them with the deep magazine below the waterline. Lukaschek, the loader, opened his small eyes and blinked upwards at Schiller. He had never forgiven Schiller for deposing him as senior man of the mess that first day he had joined the ship. He remembered the humiliation and fear when this great brute had thrown his blankets on to the deck and had made the other men laugh at him. Now he stood there, stolid and unshaken. While I, he thought, am almost afraid to stand.
Aloud he said: ‘How much longer? I can’t stand this waiting!’
Schiller looked down at him, his eyes still and lazy. ‘Shut up, earwig! Your whining makes me puke!’
Petty Officer Elmke peered crossly into the gloom, his piggy face nervous. ‘Silence! I am trying to listen!’
Schiller gripped the breech-handle and swore silently. Fools. Snivelling, gutless fools! If they try to run away from the gun I’ll smash their skulls in! He thought of Willi Pieck in the sick-bay. I wish he was here with me, and Alder, too. Just like it was in the old days. Even Hahn would be more use than Lukaschek, at least he had guts. The gunlayer turned his head and looked at him. It was Schwartz, lanky, dour and impassive as usual. It cheered Schiller to see his miserable face.
‘I wonder where the damned Tommy is, eh, Gustav?’ Schwartz bared his uneven teeth to clear away a shred of tobacco. ‘Christ, what wouldn’t I give for a glass of beer!’
‘A glass, you bastard? A barrel I want!’
Elmke hissed fiercely: ‘Silence! I shall not tell you again! I must listen!’
Schwartz grinned. ‘What for?’ He whispered across the great shining breech, ‘A message from the Pope, perhaps?’
A figure sitting apart from the rest of the gun’s crew, his narrow head deformed by a giant pair of headphones, jerked upright as if he had received an electric shock.
‘Attention!’ His voice was loud and unnecessarily harsh. ‘From Director, all guns load! Armour-piercing shell!’
Schiller drew a deep breath and pulled back on the brass lever. Like a great oven door the breech swung open. He watched as the long black shell was man-handled into the gaping hole and thrust into position by the rammer. His eyes watched the fat charge as it followed like an evil servant. He slammed the breech and stood clear, listening with half an ear to the gunlayer and trainer chanting to each other, and the communications rating reporting back to the gunnery officer. ‘Number One loaded!’
* * * * *
Damrosch jumped as von Steiger brushed against his sleeve. The Captain hardly seemed to see him as he recrossed the bridge, his glasses swinging from his neck.
Damrosch tried to concentrate on his duties. In his mind he had laid out his plans like playing cards, allowing for every eventuality. He knew it was useless, because he had often heard that real action had no use for plans—it allowed only for the moment, a case of moral courage versus brute force. He told himself over and over again, like a child repeating a prayer, This is what I have been trained for!
There was an echoing rumble, like thunder across distant hills, and he felt the vomit hard against his tongue. He waited, staring down at the chart, counting seconds. There was a subdued explosion, something like a deep sigh, and he heard a rating report, ‘Two cables short, sir!’
Damrosch felt the sweat like ice on his neck, and remembered Dehler’s terror-stricken face. He thought furiously. They must be mistaken! Only two cables short with the first salvo. It was impossible, and yet . . . He stiffened as von Steiger moved to his side and picked up a freshly sharpened pencil. He felt his eyes drawn to the neat, firm writing as it moved across the log.
At thirteen-fifteen the enemy opened fire. That was all. No dramatics. Just a statement of fact which perhaps no one would ever read. He felt the edge of panic once again, and found that the Captain was watching him.
‘That was a salvo, Damrosch,’ he said calmly. ‘They are not deceived. They are out for a kill.’
‘Yes, sir. It was very close.’ His voice sounded unsteady.
‘Not bad shooting. but still out of range, I think.’ He walked to the open shutter and looked at the bare masts.
‘Petty Officer Heiser! Hoist battle-ensigns!’
Damrosch pulled himself away from the table and followed von Steiger to the shuttered door. Through the observation-slit he could see the giant naval ensigns climbing the foremast simultaneously with the gaff. Against the blue sky the great black cross and spread eagle looked indestructible and arrogant.
Von Steiger called: ‘See that they stay there, Heiser! Have your men ready with replacements if necessary!’ To Damrosch he added: ‘I expect that surprised the cruiser! They probably anticipated a white flag!’
Damrosch followed him with his eyes. How can he joke like this? How does he do it?
Another rumble cut his thoughts short, and he listened to the reverberating thunder as the shells ploughed harmlessly into the sea.
‘Clear for action, Seebohm!’
Sub-Lieutenant Seebohm, short and fat, scurried to a telephone like an untidy spider. Within seconds of the order they heard the steel shutters fall while from the poop came the impatient rattle of metal as the gun trained aft towards the enemy.
Damrosch glanced at the still damp paintwork and false fittings. In the harsh sunlight, and beneath the German ensigns, the wasted deception seemed to mock all of them.
* * * * *
Heuss halted beneath the boatdeck and glanced quickly at the sky overhead. It was clear and bright, and no longer seemed part of the life which existed below it. He listened to the occasional thunder of gunfire from the pursuing cruiser, and found himself trying to calculate the range and estimate the nearness of those eager muzzles.
Against the sky the poop looked high and black, and he could see the white caps of the gunners as they crouched impotently around the weapon. He walked aft towards the poop, conscious of the deserted decks, of the great white wash which surged past him on either side of the hull and the shaking exertions of the engine. He walked into a twisting patch of shadow and glanced upwards at the great flapping ensign. He remembered the brave flags at Jutland, and felt his heart sink. There it had been so different. Surrounded by friendly ships, and within steaming distance of home, the battle had been fought in a daze of excitement and amateurish heroics. The flag which streamed from the gaff above his head seemed to emphasise their loneliness now and lay bare their weakness.
He reached the foot of the poop ladder and mounted the trembling rungs with quick, nervous steps. If only they could fire back. And yet the thought of what was to come when von Steiger turned the ship to face the cruiser made his brain reel.
Hellwege peered down at him, his face taut. ‘When can we open fire, sir?’
Eucken, the petty officer, snorted. ‘What the hell good would that do?’
Heuss peered over their heads and saw the fall of the last British salvo. The water fell in a great white curtain, very slowly, as if reluctant to reveal once again the plunging shape of the cruiser.
A bell jangled from the ammunition hatch, and Eucken banged the gunlayer on the arm. ‘Right! Open fire when your sights bear!’ He watched as the men leaned on their polished wheels and then looked towards Heuss. He shook his head briefly, as if to indicate that it was useless.
The twenty-two pounder hurled itself back on its mounting and simultaneously belched a long tongue of fire and smoke towards the cruiser. Through his glasses Heuss saw the single waterspout rise like a feather in line with the cruiser’s haze-shrouded stem. Far, far too short, but it gave the gunners something to do, he thought.
The rating wearing headphones turned towards them, his eyes wild, ‘Director reports we are going about! One hundred and eighty degrees!’ He sounded as if he could not believe it.
Heuss threw himself down the ladder. When the Vulkan made her turn, she would momentarily expose her full length to the enemy. As he was now in charge of the damage control parties, he would have to be ready. He reached the boatdeck, and then felt his feet begin to slide. Cursing, he grasped a wire stay and hung on desperately as the ship’s four and a half thousand tons careered round in a tight turn, the rudder hard over and every plate and rivet protesting at the violent manœuvre. He found that he was hanging on to the mast-stay and staring down across the lee rail as the surging water reached up towards the deck and the ship began to lean over at a fantastic angle. He set his teeth as the world exploded about him and a great hot breath seemed to suck the air from his lungs. The sea boiled and then shot skywards in two mountainous cones, while from somewhere forward he heard the splintering crash of a shell-burst, followed immediately by the uneven clatter of falling wreckage. He groped for his whistle, his eyes smarting with cordite smoke. He blew three short blasts, and yelled at the cringing shapes of the nearest party of men.
The ship had heaved herself upright once more, and even as Heuss ran towards the bridge he saw the brief flash of silver as Kohler fired his last two torpedoes over the rail. He did not wait to see where they had gone, but ran on through the splintered deck-planking, past a great smoking crater by the bridge, to Number Two hold which belched black smoke in a great twisting coil from the shattered tangle which had once been the cover and coaming.
‘Come on there! At the double! Get those hatches replaced! Petty Officer, take your party below and tackle the fire from that angle!’
He reeled through the smoke as his men vanished like rabbits into the smouldering crater. He tried to guess what had happened. The ship must have been straddled by a full salvo, and struck by at least two shells. All around him he could hear shouted orders, faint cries and the hiss of water being poured on to the hungry flames. He turned to look at the bridge, and saw the levelled binoculars above the scarred plating and punctured woodwork. He followed the direction of their glasses and saw the cruiser, stark and suddenly close as it swung away from the two racing torpedoes. It had been a fantastic turn. The sharply curved wake still showed astern, clearly etched on the placid blue water, and instead of a dim shadow beyond the poop gun, the British ship now stood clear and grey on the Vulkan’s port bow.
As he stared, the cruiser’s shape lengthened, her side still flashing with gunfire as her full battery came to bear. But this time her momentary exposure gave Ebert’s gunners their chance. The big five-point-nines roared out their defiance, and almost immediately a bright orange mushroom burst from the cruiser’s lean side, while close alongside another shell exploded dead on her spray-lashed waterline.
Heuss gulped with amazement as the guns fired again, and yet again. The shells screamed across the shortening range, and another hit was scored even as the cruiser twisted out of her turn and swung away from the torpedoes. Her slender main-topmast staggered, and then pitched over the side to drag alongside in a mass of aerials and loose rigging.
It was incredible. Von Steiger had made a great gamble, but had known that the enemy would hardly expect him to turn and fight. They had hit the cruiser at least three times, and a fire was raging fiercely around one of her guns.
A ripple of cheers ran along the Vulkan’s guns, cut short immediately by Lieutenant Ebert’s harsh orders from the Director.
A messenger groped his way through the smoke. ‘Fire under control, sir!’
‘Very good!’ Heuss wiped his face with a filthy rag. ‘Pass the word for more timber for this hold!’
He saw the man’s tense expression alter to a mask of pain as a shell exploded on the foredeck. Before he was hurled from his feet, Heuss saw the man’s chest open like a ghastly scarlet flower.
He struggled to his feet, shaking his head and trying to restore his hearing. The white-hot shell-splinter must have missed him by inches. He stepped over the lifeless corpse and ran towards the upper bridge. He could see the gaping holes punched along the front of the steel plates, and heard the crackle of burning woodwork from the exposed wheelhouse. As his feet slithered on the rungs of the ladder he felt his clothes pulled against his limbs as another great blast surged along the decks, followed by the tearing crash of crumbling metal.
He paused on the ladder, his forehead resting on a rung. He tried to control his shaking limbs and the fear which moved in his mind like a mad thing.
A voice, disembodied and unearthly, floated from the smoke. ‘Stretcher-bearer! Stretcher-bearer! Quick, for God’s sake!’
He bit his lip and half ran up the remainder of the ladder. The bridge was a shambles. Hardly a square foot of the place seemed to be unharmed, and the deck was littered with wood splinters, pieces of torn metal and, he saw with horror, a bunched, headless figure which crouched in the middle of the chaos like a hideous monster.
Von Steiger lowered his glasses and looked at Heuss with surprise. ‘I am glad you came, Heuss! It is warm work here!’
Heuss moved round the corpse and noticed the flecks of blood which had splashed across von Steiger’s white trousers. The air was acrid with cordite, and everything seemed to be covered with flaked paintwork and tiny particles of wood.
‘Direct hit, Captain!’ a messenger reported. ‘One hit below her bridge!’
‘Good work, eh, Heuss?’ He turned towards the Coxswain, who clung to the wheel, his eyes dark and unmoving. ‘Hard a-starboard!’ He watched the spinning spokes and listened to a salvo as it roared overhead. The shock-wave of its passing seemed to press down on the bridge like a giant hand. ‘Midships! Steer north ten west!’ His orders were quite clear and level, and Heuss blinked at him with surprise.
Von Steiger frowned as a great mountain of water rose close alongside where the ship would have been but for his helm order. ‘Too close, Heuss!’
Damrosch emerged from the wireless-room, wiping his hands on his tunic. He saw Heuss and tried to smile, but his lips seemed to be frozen.
Sub-Lieutenant Seebohm was shouting into a voice-pipe, his voice rising to a scream as another set of shells plummeted around the rocking ship. ‘Gunnery officer reports seven casualties up forward, Captain!’ Seebohm seemed unable to let go of the voice-pipe. ‘He wants replacements!’
‘Very well. Go up there yourself and see to it. Clear the poop gun if necessary!’
Seebohm sobbed as a shell struck the bulwark and ricocheted along the foredeck without exploding. It passed cleanly through a group of seamen who were carrying a wounded comrade to safety. One man was left whole. The others were scattered across the torn planking in a writhing, scarlet tangle.
Von Steiger saw the look of terror on Seebohm’s face. ‘Go on, man! It is no use looking at it!’
Seebohm ran from the bridge, and Heuss took his place by the voice-pipes. He felt calmer now, hemmed in by noise and destruction. Deaf, numb and helpless.
Damrosch turned his face away as a small shell struck the hull like a fiery hammer and threw a few splinters over the bulwark. He saw Seebohm falter, his hands pawing at the air, and then, as he half turned towards the bridge, saw the great splash of colour across his chest. Then he was down on the deck. Damrosch shook himself and stared hard at von Steiger. It was useless to think of the dead. They were already forgotten, ugly and without human form.
Von Steiger heard Damrosch vomiting, and walked to the rear of the bridge. The cruiser was hidden beneath a pall of smoke, but was firing with rapid, if haphazard, vigour.
He heard Heuss say: ‘How bad is it, sir? Can we shake her off?’
‘I think we have hit her badly. With luck we might . . .’ His words were silenced by the single shell which struck the top of the bridge and blasted the Director to fragments. Splinters whined and clattered through the wheelhouse, and Lehr, the giant Berliner, fell like a tree, his thick fingers slipping from the varnished wheel as the life ebbed from his huge body.
Even as he rolled across the grating, another man was in his place and the spokes were harnessed once more.
Heuss found that he was sitting on the deck, his ears ringing with a noise like rushing water. He watched dazedly as feet and legs rushed past him, and he had an unreal picture of mouths moving with silent commands, terrified eyes and limp bodies being pulled from the wheelhouse like slaughtered pigs.
Something moved in the wheelhouse door, and he could only sit and stare at it. He could hear nothing, and the blast had numbed his legs and made any decision impossible. Yet he still stared at Lieutenant Ebert. Karl Ebert, his friend. Ebert, the one cool-headed and dedicated man he met when he had first joined the ship. He crouched like a beaten animal in the shattered doorway, his uniform in shreds, his hands moving across the deck like claws. He had no face, just two wild eyes above a bubbling mess of blood and torn muscle.
Ebert had lost control of his beloved guns, but even at the end had wanted to report to his captain. Heuss saw all this and wanted to go to his aid. But even as the feeling returned to his legs and his ears restored the sounds of horror from all sides, Ebert pitched forward at von Steiger’s feet.
Heuss pulled himself upright and looked at his captain. There was no pity, no remorse, to be seen. Von Steiger’s features were composed, almost relaxed, as if he was praying.
‘For God’s sake, what are you trying to prove?’ Heuss swayed on his feet and realised vaguely that the ship was beginning another sharp turn. ‘What do you think this ship can take?’ His voice was wild on the verge of hysteria, but he could no longer control it.
The bridge seemed isolated in a great billowing pall of dense smoke, which repeatedly changed colour as the forward guns continued to fire at the cruiser and as fresh flames leapt freely from some new explosion below. The air was full of noise and flying shapes. Voices cried out from every side. Imploring, cursing, screaming and demanding. Around the foot of the boatdeck dark pain-racked shapes pulled themselves along the splintered planking, each move adding to their agony, but every inch bringing them nearer to the illusion of safety beneath the bridge.
Von Steiger lifted his eyes and stared at him coldly. ‘Don’t be a fool, Heuss! We are committed now! There is no turning back, there never was!’
He watched his words leave their mark on Heuss’s white face and turned sharply to Damrosch who clung stiffly to a buckled voice-pipe. ‘Get below. Damrosch! Get the prisoners mustered and ready to leave the ship. When you are ready, lower the boats to the deck level and report to me! Lieutenant Kohler has gone forward to supervise the guns personally, so he can probably cope with the fires there. But see that the petty officers are dealing with the other damage!’ He halted Damrosch as he started to run for the ladder. ‘Do not run! Remember that our people will be looking to you!’ He held Damrosch’s eyes with his own, compelling him. ‘You are doing well! I am proud of you!’
Petty Officer Weiss appeared through the smoke, his beak of a nose pale against his blackened face. He glanced momentarily at Ebert’s body and then stepped over it without a word. He took Damrosch’s place and began to relay commands through the incessantly chattering voice-pipes.
A shell struck the tall foremast and exploded with a bright-orange flash. The mast reeled drunkenly, temporarily suspended by its rigging and stays; as they parted it staggered across the port rail and carried its great ensign after it.
Heuss lifted his head as the last of the splinters sang through the air or tore into the plating, and took a deep breath. The smoke rolled clear from the fo’c’sle head, and he saw the distant shape of the cruiser. Still firing, still attacking. He turned quickly to von Steiger as his numbed mind recorded that the Vulkan was not making another turn to avoid the next salvo. The Captain was gripping the edge of the screen, his head thrown back as he took great gulps of air. Heuss stared with horror at the steadily widening patch of scarlet across the right breast of the white tunic. He caught von Steiger as his fingers slipped from the screen and held him protectively below the rim of the plating. He heard himself say quickly: ‘Hard a-port! Quickly, man!’
The ship heeled readily to the rudder as another great explosion rocked the hull. He fumbled with the buttons, his fingers reluctant to reveal what he knew would be there.
Von Steiger’s gold-flecked eyes watched him, assessing his own wound from what he saw in Heuss’s face. ‘Lift me up, Heuss!’ He struggled with sudden desperation, his hands reaching out for the rail. ‘Lift me up, damn you!’
Heuss gritted his teeth and took a shell-dressing from Petty Officer Weiss. As he applied it to the great throbbing wound von Steiger twisted in his grip, his features contorted with sudden anxiety.
‘Bring her about, Heuss! Our second gun is out of action! Bring the other battery to bear!’ He coughed and clutched the front of his tunic to his chest in a bright-red ball.
Heuss tore his eyes away, and shouted fresh orders to the misty figures around him. It was madness to fight on, and he knew it. He could feel the ship reeling and shivering like a tortured beast, and on every side the air was filled with screams and distorted commands.
The voice-pipes kept up their cries of disaster and death,
‘Poop’s ablaze, sir!’
‘Eighteen casualties aft!’
Heuss shook himself as von Steiger clutched his arm. ‘The ensign, Heuss! The foremast flag has gone!’ With a flash of his old power he shouted: ‘I ordered Heiser to keep it flying at all costs!’
‘Heiser is dead, Captain!’ Heuss saw von Steiger slump back in his chair.
‘All dead,’ he said in a small voice. ‘Wildermuth, Dehler, Seebohm and Ebert! I have done for them all!’
He would have fallen, but Heuss encircled his shoulders with his arm, cradling him against the shock and the savage thunder of the guns.
Von Steiger said suddenly: ‘It is your responsibility now, Heuss! Will you strike your flag, or fight on?’
Heuss saw the agony on von Steiger’s face, and looked around at the carnage. A great pall of smoke enveloped the ship, yet overhead the watery sun still shone. How can that be? He thought.
He felt von Steiger flinch as another shell plummeted on to the maindeck and hurled a giant winch into the air like paper. A derrick crashed on to the torn poop and cleaved down the struggling fire party. On the bridge, the remaining men still stood facing the enemy, their boots planted alongside their fallen comrades. A new ensign flapped from the mast stump.
Von Steiger struggled upright in the chair. ‘You won’t let them surrender will you, Heuss? Not without honour?’ His eyes shone like fire in his pale face, and Heuss felt the resistance draining from his screaming nerves.
How can I fight a man like this? Aloud he said, as if in reply: ‘Starboard twenty! Steer due north!’ The ship heeled, and Heuss stared down at the man in his arms. ‘She is sinking, Captain! It is not long now!’
Von Steiger fought the nausea which threatened to engulf him with each movement. He listened to Heuss’s clear voice, and watched the great black clouds of smoke which closed in on the wheelhouse. Heuss understood, and that was all that mattered.
As Heuss glanced down at the Captain he saw with amazement that he was smiling. Through his teeth he said: ‘Close the range, Heuss! Close the range!’
Heuss shouted above the terrible chorus of death, ‘The enemy have ceased fire!’ He felt the hysteria in his own voice. ‘They have ceased fire!’ Below him, the Vulkan began to reel slowly towards the smoke-shrouded water.
* * * * *
Schiller slammed the breech shut and jumped clear, his streaming eyes already peering round for the next shell. The gun bellowed again, and hurled itself back on its recoil springs. Automatically he pulled back the breech lever, and coughed thickly to clear the fumes from his lungs. The ship was turning, and for a while his gun would no longer bear on the enemy. He watched the next shell being pushed home, and tried to remember how many they had fired. The confined space was filled with fumes, and the gun-barrel seemed to glow with the heat of battle.
Schwartz looked back at him, his face old and lines with fatigue. ‘Poop gun’s gone!’ he shouted hoarsely above the roar of the other battery. ‘Poor bastards were wiped out!’
Schiller spat, and leaned heavily on the lever. Hellwege, Schoningen and the fat ex-shoemaker, Gottlieb. Wiped away like steam from a pork-shop window.
Lieutenant Kohler thrust his way through the waiting figures, his chin jutting forward. ‘Stand by there! Prepare to reopen fire!’
Petty Officer Elmke whispered from the rear of the gun mounting: ‘They’re pounding us to pieces! Why don’t we surrender?’
‘Keep quiet, you pig!’ Kohler snarled through the dense smoke. ‘One more word like that and I’ll shoot you down!’
Schiller did not hear the shell which fell on top of the fo’c’sle, but was clearly aware of the great five-point-nine gun rising up in front of him, the steel bright where the mounting had burst in two. The gun lurched past him and fell back into a great jagged hole in the deck. He found he was looking straight down into the glittering water through shattered plates, the edges of which curved towards him like wet cardboard.
He shook himself and gave a low moan. He was alive, and, but for a long gash in his arm, unmarked. He saw the petty officer crawling round in a small circle, like a blinded animal. Schwartz had been cut down by splinters, and was smashed into a pulp against the steel bulkhead. The other gunners were lying in a tangled heap, and, as he watched dazedly, Lukaschek staggered free from their dead embraces and ran towards the rear door. Schiller watched him go, his ears closed to his shrill screams. Without arms, he thought, he cannot get very far.
Another sound made him walk unsteadily to the edge of the crater behind the mounting. Lieutenant Kohler lay on his back, the full weight of a steel girder resting across his legs. It was part of the support built beneath the gun, yet it had been blasted apart as cleanly as a carrot. Schiller watched as Kohler tried to pull himself clear, and noticed that the lower half of his trapped body remained motionless, as if he had been cut in half by the girder. Beyond him he could also see the gleaming surface of trapped water. God, he thought wearily, we are going down.
‘Don’t leave me!’ The voice cut into his shocked thoughts like a knife. ‘Get help! I am trapped!’ Kohler’s arms thrashed about, and reminded Schiller of a pinioned insect.
Schiller glanced at the dead gunners, and then spat. ‘Go to hell!’ he shouted. ‘Better men than you have died today!’
He walked out into the smoke-clouds of the upper deck with Kohler’s screams and curses still ringing in his ears. He saw the big ensign, torn by splinters, flapping gaily from the stump of foremast. Great tongues of flame billowed from Number Two hold, where the coal had finally been fired by an exploding shell. He watched the line of prisoners being hurried to the boatdeck, and saw Damrosch, hatless and wild-eyed, as he pushed the last of the stumbling figures past the roaring flames.
Another shell burst alongside, and even as the spray hissed on the fires a seaman at Damrosch’s side spun round and fell quietly on the deck. Schiller was bending over him as Damrosch returned.
‘Is he dead. Schiller?’ His voice was taut and brittle.
Schiller nodded, and stood up. It was Erhard. His sad face strangely composed in death.
‘What is that in his hand?’ Damrosch leaned against the deckhouse as Schiller prised it from the man’s fist.
Schiller looked at the small, tattered bible in his hand and sent it spinning over the rail. To Damrosch he said: ‘She’s going down, sir! We’d better get to the boats!’ He saw the indecision and anguish on the young officer’s face and added, ‘Come on, sir, I’ll help you with the others!’
Schiller stopped and gaped at the two figures which reeled through the smoke, a third propped between them. Pieck and Alder were carrying a wounded petty officer, and also halted to peer with disbelief at the others.
‘Hallo, Willi!’ Schiller grinned with sudden abandon. ‘Here, give me that one! You’re too much of a shrimp for men’s work!’
Pieck faltered as Damrosch and Alder hurried towards the boatdeck. ‘Where’s Lieutenant Kohler?’ Pieck asked.
Schiller picked up the wounded man and said, ‘Up forward!’
Another explosion sent them reeling, and when the smoke had cleared Pieck had gone, limping towards the fo’c’sle. Schiller shrugged wearily and shambled towards the boatdeck, unaware that the man he was carrying was now dead.
Pieck groped his way into the smashed gun-compartment, his boots skidding on the broken bodies and hot metal. He felt the pain in his broken ribs tearing him apart, but he ignored it, and followed the incessant stream of abuse, curses and sobs until he was down in the crater beside Kohler. It should have been his most triumphant moment, but the childlike gratitude in Kohler’s terrified eyes robbed him of everything but pity.
Another shell ripped into the fo’c’sle and sent the broken gun rolling from its smashed mounting. Like a giant gate it crashed across the mouth of the crater and sealed the two occupants below.
Pieck felt the water cold about his feet, and looked upwards towards the tiny crack of filtered daylight. The water seemed to have reached his shins, and he was tempted to run screaming against the impenetrable barrier of steel. He felt a groping hand feeling frantically for him in the darkness, and with sudden determination he grasped it with his own. Then, in silence, they both waited.
* * * * *
Damrosch pushed a seaman away from the swaying whaleboat as it hung alongside the boatdeck. ‘Get back there! Put these men aboard!’
He saw the dory and another whaleboat idling clear from the ship as it reduced speed, crammed with men, prisoners and hastily gathered wounded. Other heads bobbed in the smoke-covered water and then vanished astern; friend or foe he could not tell, nor did he care.
He realised suddenly that he had fallen to the deck and sat almost on the edge, his shocked eyes staring at the blood which seeped steadily down his leg.
A man seized him and bundled him into the boat, and then he was dropping down the ship’s listing side. He was aware that the girl was crouched with him, and that a great silence had fallen. He lay back and stared at the blue sky beyond the smoke. I am alive, he thought. I am still alive.
* * * * *
Schiller scrambled up the port bridge ladder and pushed his way into the listing wheelhouse. He did not know why he had come, but felt a strange relief as he saw Lieutenant Heuss and the huddled figure of the Captain.
Schiller gathered von Steiger into his arms and staggered down the steep slope of the deck. ‘I have him, sir! Come on, Lieutenant! There’s nothing more you can do!’
Heuss paused in the canting doorway and peered back through the smoke. The wheelhouse was already lifeless and dead, like the men who were sprawled across its splintered deck.
With a sigh he followed the big seaman, and scrambled down the ladder to the deserted deck. It was barely feet above the hungry water, and he saw with dulled amazement that a boat was still hooked on and hands were already helping Schiller and von Steiger over the gunwale. The boat pulled clear, and even the wounded seamen were silenced as a great shadow loomed across the calm water and blotted out the sun.
Von Steiger struggled weakly. ‘Help me up! Quickly!’
He felt himself lifted above the gunwale so that he, too, was beneath the great shadow. Above him the Vulkan loomed like a black pinnacle of rock as she slowly lifted her stern towards the sky. Von Steiger raised his fingers to the peak of his cap.
With a great roar of inrushing water the Vulkan dived, as if eager to be gone from pain and humiliation.
Von Steiger watched the swirling whirlpool and said, ‘Was the flag still there, Heuss?’
Heuss stared across his head at the girl, who held von Steiger’s shoulder against her breast, her eyes brimming with tears. Behind them the British cruiser moved slowly towards the drifting boats, and the sound of their cheering drifted across the quiet water.
Heuss wiped his blackened face, the strength coursing back to his limbs. ‘Listen. Captain! There is your answer. They are cheering you!’
Von Steiger smiled, and allowed his head to fall back. Poor Vulkan, he thought wearily. Together, we became the last raider.