Duncan yelled, ‘Look at that!’
That
was the arrival of
Andromeda
’s first sighting shots. Tall waterspouts shooting from the sea in pairs. Palliser was red-hot all right. His first salvo was within half a cable. The twin explosions would be shaking the damaged ship like a terrier with a hare. The German would surrender right now if he had any sense.
Duncan shouted hoarsely, ‘Christ, Skipper! There are men coming on deck!’
Masters gritted his teeth and put the Seafox into a steep dive. ‘Hold tight, the Buffs!’
Through the racing prop he saw the ship reaching out on either side like a massive breakwater. Smoke belched over the cockpit and he thought he could smell burning paint, charred woodwork. But he could not drag his eyes from the mass of stampeding figures which were pouring up from the hatches, running about in confusion which even distance could not hide.
The enemy’s tracer had stopped, and Masters saw the Seafox’s shadow flit over the ship’s scarred deck like a crucifix, the way that some of the figures had paused to stare up at him, and then to his astonishment to wave and cheer.
Duncan sobbed, ‘God, they’re
our
men! It must be a prison ship!’
Masters veered away, skimming so close to the sea that he seemed to be lower than the enemy’s bulwark.
Of course, that was it. A supply ship for the raider, her holds packed with the crews of captured prizes.
‘Call up
Andromeda
! Keep sending and I’ll try to reach her right away!’
Beyond the cloud and drifting banks of spray, as her upper works and battle ensigns took shape in the strengthening light,
Andromeda
’s gunnery officer held his breath and waited for the target to settle in his prismatic sights.
‘Shoot!’
It was a full broadside, eight shells, each weighing a hundred pounds, smashing across the enemy’s hull in a perfect straddle.
Masters eased the throttle and pushed his goggles up to his forehead. He knew that Duncan had given up trying to use the R/T and was triggering off his urgent signal with an Aldis lamp.
Cease firing. . . . Cease firing.
He watched the first sunlight breaking through the clouds and a lengthening pall of smoke. It was like seeing two
sunrises at once, Masters thought. Except that one was the reflected inferno he was leaving behind. A ship blasted into a fiery ball by that last deadly salvo.
MOON, HIS SMALL
silver tray beneath one arm, stood in silence until Blake had re-read his typed report and signed it. After the violent motion on the fringe of a tropical storm, and the swift encounter with the German ship,
Andromeda
seemed unnaturally quiet. As if she were resting, deciding what to do next.
Through one of the cabin’s polished scuttles Moon could see the shoreline rising and falling gently as the cruiser swung to her cable.
Like most sailors, Moon rarely considered the miles steamed, the oil consumed, the food eaten to get his ship from one dot on a chart to another. They had come from the Mediterranean, they had survived the worst fighting Moon had ever seen. To Australia then, for what reason their lordships probably knew best, and they would not consult him anyway. And now, across the undulating swell of blue water was Port Elizabeth, South Africa. He watched the distant houses, very white in the noon sunlight, a strip of pale beach, the land mass beyond, dull greens and browns. It even looked hot from here, he thought.
Blake sat back and stretched his arms. He had read his report and still barely recognized it. All he could see in his mind was the tiny seaplane rising and dipping through the wind, a lamp blinking frantically even as
Andromeda
’s broadside fell on the target like an avalanche.
With
Fremantle
steaming in a protective circle, Blake had stopped his ship in the great oil slick and the too-familiar work of clearing up the mess had begun. The black, choking survivors had mostly been their own kind, crewmen from the
Bikanir
, the first reported victim to fall to the raider’s guns. Except that she was not the first after all. A Dutch freighter
called the
Evertsen,
given up as a storm loss some weeks earlier, had also been captured and then sunk. Some of her people were dragged gasping and groaning up
Andromeda
’s side or into the boats which moved through the mass of bobbing remnants like undertakers’ men.
There was a tap at the door and Fairfax stepped into the cabin.
‘The last of the wounded have been taken ashore, sir. Captain Farleigh’s marines have the Germans under guard, the uninjured ones, that is.’
Blake nodded. With the ship swaying gently at anchor, the inviting coastline of Port Elizabeth lying abeam, it was hard to hold the recent events in perspective.
He knew that the same sense of bewilderment was effecting most of his ship’s company. The seasoned, battle-hardened ones would be taking it philosophically.
Trust the top-brass to foul it up.
What was the point of cracking an egg with a sledge-hammer, especially as some of their own blokes had bought it in the process? Others, especially the new hands, might see it as a kind of victory anyway. She was a German ship, a supply vessel for the raider, and they and not
Fremantle
had put her down.
There had been a report of another ship in difficulties to the eastward, but too far for the raider to have reached in the time available. But Stagg had made a brief signal instructing
Andromeda
to take the survivors and the few German prisoners to Port Elizabeth where they would await escort and interrogation by the proper authorities.
Only one German officer, a lieutenant, had survived the bombardment, and he, needless to say, had divulged little when Blake had questioned him. His ship, the
Bremse,
had been a supply vessel but had been about to try and penetrate the blockade and get back to Germany or Occupied France.
Any further information had gone to the bottom with the ship’s confidential books and codes when the German captain had first sighted the
Fremantle
.
The raider had kept all his officer prisoners with him, but the boatswain of the Dutch
Evertsen
had been able to supply some valuable information. He spoke German well and had
heard his guards discussing their chances of getting home again.
The man who commanded the raider
was
Kurt Rietz, so Stagg had been right about that. But at no time had he heard them speak of the Australian cruiser
Devonport
, which was strange, as she must surely have been quite a victory for the Germans.
Blake stood up. ‘I’d better come on deck. Have the awnings and booms rigged and all boats lowered.’
Even as he said it he thought of the unreality which surrounded them. Lying at anchor, so that the wounded and shocked survivors had to be ferried ashore, and likewise any replacement stores and fresh water had to do the same trip. Security or red tape, Blake did not know.
On the quarterdeck it was oppressively hot, the shore shimmering in a haze like an unfocused gunsight.
The Germans, in borrowed clothing or wrapped in towels, stood like beaten animals, dull eyes fixed on the shore, while they waited to be taken to a prison camp.
Blake nodded to the marine guard and glanced along the strained faces. Mostly older men, ex-merchant sailors, others too old for active service in destroyers or U-boats.
Fairfax said quietly, ‘They don’t look much, sir.’
Blake had seen plenty of German prisoners and felt the usual uneasiness. It was better to keep the war impersonal, the enemy at a distance. Brought face to face they were too familiar.
He said, ‘The intelligence people will get nothing out of them. They’ll know nothing. They carried the supplies, kept out of trouble, and that’s all. I’ll lay odds there’s another supply ship already out here or on the way right now.’
A German petty officer barked, ‘
Besatzung stillgestanden!
’ and the dismal collection of survivors shuffled to attention. The man saluted Blake, his eyes feverishly bright as he stared at a point above Blake’s shoulder.
Captain Farleigh stepped smartly forward. ‘Boat’s alongside, sir.’ He pointed at the prisoners. ‘For them.’
‘Very well.’
Blake turned away and looked along the length of his command. Men were busy swaying out the booms and the aircraft’s crane was lowering the power boats alongside. Blake thought of Masters’ return in the Seafox. That he had survived was a miracle, but the seaplane stood demurely on the catapult with its attendant mechanics as proof of his skill.
Blake recalled with stark clarity the pilot’s bitterness and anger as he had clambered up to the bridge.
‘What the hell are we? Bloody butchers? That was no raider. One popgun and a couple of m.g.s! Christ Almighty, Stagg must be raving mad!’
When he entered the bridge Masters had been outwardly calm again, but his words lingered in Blake’s mind. Stagg had over-reacted, had seen only what he had wanted to see. The grim fact remained, however, that
Andromeda
’s guns had made the kill.
Blake ran his glance over the bridge. It looked remote from the quarterdeck, and yet he could see himself up there still. He knew what was partly wrong with himself. He was too protective about his ship, her name. Men died in war, it was a simple fact. With luck you came through. Usually more were killed because of stupid orders and impossible missions than by the enemy’s skill. On either side.
But
Andromeda
meant something. She had survived so much, too much to be wasted on a stupid blunder. Think of it how you liked, Stagg had been too hasty. He had known
Andromeda
was on her way, and when the weather had finally improved he would have been able to use his two aircraft to seek out the
Bremse
whether Blake had made contact or not.
The fact that Fairfax had carefully avoided the subject of Stagg’s strategy was almost worse. Like adding ‘I told you so’ to all the other doubts and anxieties.
He tried to relax, muscle by muscle, the sweat running down his spine like hot rain.
He was going round the bend. And why not? It happened to others.
Lieutenant Friar, the new torpedo officer, saluted and reported, ‘Launch approaching, sir.’ He was OOD but kept
his eyes averted from Blake’s, like the German petty officer, like most of them since the
Bremse
had exploded.
The approaching launch swept round in an impressive arc towards the lowered accommodation ladder, her bowman ready with his boat-hook, as smart as if he was at a peacetime review.
The heavier boat containing the German prisoners chugged past, the dull-eyed survivors staring at the glittering launch without recognition or interest.
Blake sighed. God knows, he thought, they’ve made enough misery in the world, brought on a war that seems unending, and yet they deserved some pity. As far as everyone else was concerned, except possibly for their close relatives, they had already been written off. Numbers,
things
to be shunted from camp to camp, fed and guarded, and that was all.
Lieutenant Friar lowered his telescope. ‘There’s a captain aboard, sir.’
Fairfax snapped, ‘Man the side there!’
Marines moved into position, the OOD and quartermaster stepped smartly to the head of the ladder.
Blake straightened his cap, tradition took over. It was useful at times like these.
The boatswains’ calls twittered in salute, and then, with his hand to the peak of his cap, Captain Quintin stepped on to the brass plate on
Andromeda
’s quarterdeck.
He shook hands with Blake and nodded to Fairfax.
‘I flew,’ he said simply.
Several heads turned as the Wren officer called Claire Grenfell followed him on to the deck, her eyes and expression completely masked by dark sun-glasses.
Quintin ran one finger round his collar. ‘What about a drink?’ He waited for the girl to join him and added, ‘Now what’s this about you blowing up Germans? I want it all. Forget the report you’ve got ready for our superiors. I want the professional view.’ He fell in step beside Blake. ‘Whether it hurts or not.’
On the evening of the same day that the
Andromeda
anchored off Port Elizabeth, the German raider,
Salamander
, lay hove to some one hundred and eighty miles south-west of Madagascar. Although the Indian Ocean was restless with a deep, unending swell, the raider appeared to be motionless, standing against the sunset like an iron fortress.
Also stopped, and less than a cable away, the Swedish merchantman,
Patricia,
looked clean and remote by comparison.
Between the two vessels a motor launch plunged and bucked across the water towards her parent ship, empty but for some seamen and the Swedish captain.
High on the raider’s square, business-like bridge her commanding officer, Kurt Rietz, studied the returning launch through his powerful Zeiss binoculars. It had been easy, almost too easy, he thought as he focused his glasses on the Swedish master. But there had been a rain squall, unusual for the time of year, which had deluged across the blue water, shutting off the horizon like a steel fence. When it had passed on just as swiftly, leaving the upper deck and life-boats steaming in the sunshine as if about to burst into flames, the Swede had been there. To turn away would have roused suspicion. The German’s mouth lifted in a wry smile. Even neutrals raised hue and cry once they were at a safe distance.
Rietz turned on his heel and re-entered the wheelhouse. Everything except the bridge equipment, compass and electrical gear looked worn and uncared for. Even the brass plate above the chartroom door which stated that the
Salamander
of eight thousand tons, built originally for general cargo and passengers on the South America run, and launched in 1936 at Hamburg, was green with salt.
Rietz was well aware of his ship’s shabby appearance and he disliked it. But a raider was like no other sea creature. She had to live from her wits and her ability to survive against odds. To succeed she must use only what was necessary. Paint by the drumload to change her appearance and alter her identity. Like now, with the name
John A. Williams
painted in great white letters on her hull below the Stars and Stripes of America. Wood and canvas, wires and cordage, so that a
false funnel could be hoisted to be a twin with her single one. Rietz had expected the false funnel to fall. It had been a hasty piece of work, and some new system would have to be introduced. He would pass the word around his command, as he always did. A bottle of schnapps or captured Scotch for the best idea.