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.