Authors: Antony Trew
The firing was followed by the utmost confusion in the Captain’s cabin.
The women screamed high shrieks of terror as von
Falkenhausen
and Schäffer, who’d been facing Rohrbach, Johan and the Newt, swung round firing at the porthole from which the shots had come.
When the second shot whistled past his head, Moewe threw himself down behind the settee on which the Britishers were sitting. After the initial shock, confused thoughts raced through his mind: there was an attack of some kind on the ship—of what sort and why he had no idea, but it had
something
to do with the presence on board of the three British naval officers. Somehow he must get out of the cabin—to the radio telephone—alert the shore authorities—this was a neutral port—whatever the British were up to was illegal—they couldn’t get away with it!
Another good reason for getting out of the cabin was his desire to survive; there were armed men at the portholes, the chances of getting shot seemed pretty high, and Moewe had no desire to be shot. Within the brief moment of these thoughts he translated them into action, rolling sideways towards the pantry door, the revolver still in his hand. The noise was unbelievable, the screams of the women, more firing—it seemed
in
the cabin now—the hoarse shouts of Lindemann and the Freiherr and, above it all, the unceasing clamour of
riveting
coming over the water. Reaching the pantry door he slid through it feet first, propelling himself forward on his elbows, buttocks and heels. Behind him an English voice shouted. He shut the pantry door and ran through into the alleyway.
A lot had happened in the cabin in the five seconds it had taken Moewe to reach the pantry. As von Falkenhausen and Schäffer swung round and fired at the portholes on the starboard side, the screen-door behind them opened and McFadden, Hans and Mike Kent, faces blackened, hair tousled, burst in with their automatics in their hands. McFadden’s shout sounded above the general clamour. “Hands up!”
Suddenly there was a superfluity of guns, for as von
Falkenhause
n and Schäffer turned away, Rohrbach, Johan and the Newt jumped to their feet, automatics drawn. Rohrbach covered Lindemann, for whom the pace of events was too much—he stood open-mouthed, gaping into the barrel of Rohrbach’s gun, his own at his feet, his hands above his head. Kuhn remained in the arm-chair, alarmed, blinking in bewilderment, half-way across the threshold of sleep.
But the Newt wasn’t taking any chances and he stood over the little man with the barrel of his automatic a foot from the close-cropped head.
On hearing McFadden’s shout the two Germans had spun round to find themselves looking into the barrels of six guns—their guests’ and the new arrivals’. The Freiherr smiled wanly, dropped his Luger and put up his hands. For a moment Schäffer looked as if he might make a fight of it, but he saw Johan’s gun pointing at him and didn’t like the look in the big man’s eyes, or the broken nose and cauliflower ears, so he dropped his gun and put up his hands. He knew a tough man when he saw one. Schäffer was tough, too, but it was no good now. Maybe later.
Mike Kent picked up the guns the Germans had dropped, and McFadden said: “Chuck ’em over the side, Mike boy.”
It was all over in the cabin.
They pushed the four Germans into a corner, made them sit with their hands clasped on their heads, and asked the women to go into the Captain’s sleeping cabin and stay there until further notice. Mariotta was too tired to be really
interested in what was happening—she kept yawning and mumbling “Holy Mother!” Hester and Cleo helped her through the door and with Di Brett they went into Lindemann’s cabin. Di Brett sat on the bunk, Mariotta lay on it, and the others sat on small chairs.
The effect of these events on the women was variously catastrophic: Cleo Melanides was shattered by it all—the guns produced by the Freiherr and Schäffer, the firing through the portholes, the return fire from the Germans, the three thug-like men bursting into the cabin, arms and faces blackened, the whites of their eyes and their pink lips theatrically bright under the crude make-up, their faces grim, their guns
menacing
.
And then the final shock when Johan, Rohrbach and the mild-looking Mr. Newton had produced their automatics—these so-called strangers whom it now seemed all knew each other—the whole thing was obviously pre-arranged. Whatever it was, it was like a bad dream. Terrifying! Unbelievable! What on earth was it all about? One thing seemed certain—the British, whoever they were, were getting the best of it and because she was Greek and had only done what she had for the sake of Mariotta whom she adored and who couldn’t keep away from Lindemann, she was glad.
It served the Germans right. They deserved this after what they’d done to Greece! Yes, I’m glad, she thought. I’m very glad, but I’m frightened, too. Mixed with these emotions, was resentment that Rohrbach and Johan should have got her and Mariotta involved. She could see now how the women had been made use of.
Hester Smit, after an initial bout of terror notwithstanding Günther Moewe’s warning that morning, was beginning to adjust herself to the pace of events. She liked excitement and had plenty of courage, but she was glad that the firing had stopped and she was glad, too, that Johan and his men had come out on top. She’d fallen heavily for Johan—he was her countryman—he was big and strong—kind, too, anyone could
see that—and he had a sense of humour although he had seemed very fierce standing there with his gun aimed at Schäffer, looking as though he’d like to use it. But it had happened that, at that moment, her eyes had met Johan’s and he had winked. She had wanted to laugh but somehow couldn’t.
Mariotta was too heavily drugged to have much idea of what was going on. She heard and saw it all dimly, as through a mist. It was disturbing and yet funny, too, in a way—cowboys and crooks—that was what it was—they were acting —charades—not dumb ones though—the noise was fabulous!
Holy Mother! she thought, I’m drunk. Mariotta Manuella do Nascimento Pereira—daughter of a great plantation owner who wore the
Comendador
da
Ordem
do
Cristo
—and I’m drunk. Holy Mother! What would the family say. Such degradation, such goings on. And me a Portuguese girl. Portuguese girls of good family didn’t visit ships for parties with officers; Portuguese girls of good family didn’t go about without chaperons—and they certainly didn’t have affairs with married sea captains.
Di Brett was frightened and confused. Her relief when von Falkenhausen and Schäffer had arrived and taken charge—her pride in the knowledge of the part she had played—had been dashed by what, incredibly, had followed. Where had all these men come from? Where were the rest of the
Hagenfels
’s crew? Why had no alarm been given? How could the British do this in a neutral port? What would happen next? Whatever she did, she must keep up the pretence of being Di Brett—that was vital! The Germans would never give her away but—her heart beat faster—if she were found out?
She shivered.
Although Widmark’s five shots through the starboard porthole were fired to create a diversion, he had intended them for the man standing, gun in hand, behind Rohrbach and his
companions
. It was the German he’d identified as second officer
by the two gold stripes on his sleeves. But Widmark had had to shoot fast and aim high so that he didn’t hit his own men. When he saw Moewe fall, he experienced the same morbid satisfaction he’d had when looking at the unconscious German whom Hans had coshed: a curious surge of exultation, a racing of the blood, a desire to shout his approval. He had been waiting for this moment a long time, and it had assumed vast importance. But in spite of these emotions he remained cool and analytical and as he fired the last of the five shots he ran back along the side of the deck-house, opened the door, made sure the alleyway outside the Captain’s cabin was clear, and stepped into it. Just then he heard McFadden’s shout—“Hands up!”—and he smiled grimly at the success of the diversion. He was about to enter the cabin, when a door at the far end of the alleyway opened and a man came out, back towards him, and ran through the port door on to the deck outside. In the brief span of time this took, Widmark did three things: noted with a shock the two gold stripes, realised that he hadn’t killed the second officer, and took a snap shot at him—that is to say, he pressed the trigger of his automatic but nothing happened. Cursing, he snapped back the breech, saw the cartridge jammed at the top of the magazine, whipped it out, slipped in a full clip, and ran down the alleyway out on to the boat deck. The attempt to capture the
Hagenfels
,
going so well until then, was suddenly threatened. There was the ship’s siren on which the alarm could be sounded—there was the radio telephone which could be used to call the Port Captain’s office—there were other dangerous possibilities.
Standing on the boat deck, temporarily blinded by the blackness of the night, Widmark estimated that the German had a five-second start. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, he looked forward first. It was fortunate that he did so for, silhouetted against the rain-blurred anchor light, he saw a man disappear up the port bridge ladder.
Silently, Widmark followed him. He reached the bridge and saw a glow of light as the chart-house door was opened and
the man stepped in. The door shut and the light disappeared. Widmark made for the door.
As he reached it, he heard the rising note of a transmitting generator just switched on. Swinging the door open, he saw the German at the chart-table holding the telephone hand-set of the radio-telephone. It would have been easy to shoot him in the back, to smash his head in with the cosh; but Widmark did neither of these things. Throwing his automatic on to the chart-room settee, he leapt at Moewe, swung him round by the shoulder with one hand and with the other brushed the German’s Luger from where it lay on the chart-table on to the deck—then, Moewe facing him, eyes wide with sudden fear, Widmark hit him across the side of his face with an open hand. The blow sounded like the bursting of a paper bag.
Widmark saw the gleam of fear in the German’s eyes, and hit him again, full in the face this time and with a clenched fist—that made Moewe fight back. He got an arm round Widmark’s neck in an attempt at a stranglehold, but
Widmark
’s knee caught him a massive upward blow, thudding into his groin. Moewe screamed and dropped his arms. Widmark’s hands went round the German’s throat and he pushed him back against the chart-table. Moewe saw the mad glare in Widmark’s eyes and tried to fight him off, but was helpless—the edge of the chart-table caught him below the buttocks, and as his shoulders went back, Widmark’s knee smashed into his groin again. Moewe’s second scream was muffled and choked as Widmark’s fingers tightened on his windpipe. The second officer was bent over backwards now, with the South African on top of him. With a frenzied burst of strength, Widmark smashed the German’s head into the R/T cabinet—once, twice, thrice. There were tinkling screeching sounds of broken glass and metal, and Moewe’s eyes glazed as he slid to the deck, Widmark falling with him, his fingers tight on his adversary’s throat, gasping with exertion, his eyes close to the German’s.
When Moewe went limp, Widmark let go and staggered to
his feet. Then he stood over him, leaning on the chart-table, looking down on the blood-stained face, the absurdly staring eyes.
“You poor bastard——!” he muttered, breathing heavily, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “You poor miserable bastard—I’ve been wanting to do this to one of you for a long time.”
He pulled himself up on to the chart-table and sat there panting, cleaning his hands on a handkerchief which was soon mussed with blood and stove-black. Then he put a foot on Moewe’s chest, and with dull eyes watched the dead man.
“Listen you, whoever you are,” he mumbled, rolling the face sideways with his foot. “It was too easy for you—just a longish minute of fright and it was all over——” He shook his head. “Not like Olafsen—he had an hour of it—with his guts shot out. And mother—
my
mother! What d’you think she went through?” He moved the German’s face with his foot again, and the swollen tongue lolled out. “What d’you think she felt? I mean, drowning like that—an old woman—alone in the water—in a gale in the middle of the night.”
Widmark shook his head again and then he sat on the settee, chin in hand, brooding. Later, he looked at his watch. It was 2227. He got up, frowned at the smashed valves and broken metal in the radio cabinet, at Günther Moewe’s dead, sightless eyes staring at the deckhead, and then, taking his automatic from the settee, he picked up the German’s Luger and went out on to the bridge where he threw it into the sea. The
riveting
was as loud as ever as he went down the ladder, into the deck-house and along the alleyway to the Captain’s cabin to find the four Germans sitting in a corner, hands clasped on their heads, the Newt and Rohrbach covering them with automatics.
“Where are the others?” Widmark was breathing heavily, still feeling the effects of his struggle with Moewe,
“You all right, Steve?” Rohrbach looked with dismay at
Widmark’s face, streaked with blood where the stove-polish had rubbed off.
Widmark did not appear to hear the question. “Where’re the others?” he repeated.
“McFadden and Hans went down to the engine-room a few minutes ago, Mike Kent’s up for’ard on guard outside the fo’c’sle. Johan’s hunting for the second officer and the steward.”
Widmark was visibly shaken. “My
God
!
I’d forgotten about the steward——!”
“We’re worried about the second officer. He’s much more dangerous.”
Widmark’s face did something then—it wasn’t a smile—it couldn’t really be described. Afterwards Rorhbach said: “For a moment I thought Steve had gone round the bend—I mean, his eyes, and the way he showed his teeth when he grinned and said: ‘He’s dead.’ Then he stared at his hands and said: ‘Get these Jerries into the chain-locker with the others. Where are the women?’”