‘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.