He shouted, his voice cracked, but nobody could hear. He stared back at the bridge calling like a maniac, but even the lookouts were too deaf to hear him. Braun was too frozen and terrified to realise that he was hardly making any noise and his voice was too weak to carry.

  ‘The telephone! Must try to get back!’ Mumbling and whimpering in turn he started to drag himself back up the glittering, treacherous rungs.

  * * * * *

  Above the swaying wheelhouse, Willi Pieck crouched beside the camouflaged range-finder. He pulled the frozen canvas canopy around his body to protect himself from the intense cold as he bent over the mechanism to ensure that the oil was free from ice.

  Petty Officer Brandt, the most unpopular N.C.O. aboard, a man who would make trouble when it was not easily found, had ordered Pieck to carry out this additional duty although the boy should have been off watch and below in the warmth of his mess.

  Brandt had hounded and chased the four new seamen from the detention barracks from the moment they had stepped aboard, but, shaken by Schiller’s indifference and Hahn’s cunning, he had concentrated his wrath upon Pieck and the defenceless Alder.

  Pieck was still wearing only his thin uniform and oilskin, the petty officer having refused him permission to get his watch-coat. He clenched his fists like a child and rested his head against the range-finder. One way or the other, there was always someone who tried to extinguish his small spark of hope.

  With a sigh like that of an old man he lifted his head. It was then that he saw the iceberg.

  Afterwards he tried to remember how it had looked, but could recall only its ghostly gleam through the mist and its terrible menace. For a long moment he could not drag his eyes away. The iceberg was getting sharper in outline, and the ship appeared to be dashing towards it with something like eagerness.

  Then all at once he was up and running for the ladder, heedless of his own safety and conscious only of the realisation that the lookout for some reason had not seen the danger.

  He fell the last few rungs, but picking himself up with the resilience of a rubber ball, he burst into the quiet calm of the wheelhouse.

  ‘Sir! Sir!’ Pieck was tongue-tied with the urgency of his news.

  Kohler spun round. ‘How dare you come in here like that!’ But the reprimand died on his lips as the boy stepped into the small circle of light. For a moment Kohler was completely off balance and could only stare at Pieck’s stricken face.

  Making a tremendous effort he snapped, ‘Well now, Seaman Pieck is it not?’

  The boy swayed, and would have fallen but for Wildermuth, who said, not unkindly, ‘Make your report, lad!’

  Pieck still stared at Kohler, but his lips moved mechanically as if he was mesmerised by those opaque eyes.

  ‘Iceberg, sir! Dead ahead!’ The words dropped like grenades in a sleeping trench.

  As Wildermuth dashed to the forward window calling: ‘What did you say? Where is it?’ Kohler strode to the telephone and cranked vigorously at the handle. Excluding everyone else on the bridge but Pieck he said, ‘If you are lying, I’ll——’

  He paused, the lifeless telephone still in his hand, as the starboard lookout screamed out: ‘Ice! Dead Ahead!’

  Wildermuth gasped and jumped back from the window as if he had been scalded. He had seen the white wall for himself. It rose over the ship with contemptuous majesty, maybe a hundred feet higher than the foremast itself.

  Kohler, still caught off balance by Pieck’s appearance on the bridge, felt panic rising within him.

  ‘Hard a-port!’ His voice was toneless, his eyes fixed on the ice.

  The helmsman had taken one turn of the wheel when a sharp voice cut across the bridge like the bite of a whip.

  ‘Wheel amidships! Full speed astern!’ Von Steiger walked slowly to the front of the bridge as a man would walk to a window to see a passing parade. ‘Bosun’s Mate, pipe the watch below on deck! Close all watertight doors and swing out the boats!’

  As the frightened seaman ran from the bridge von Steiger added, almost conversationally: ‘Never put the helm over, Lieutenant! You might slit open her belly on an ice ledge!’

  Von Steiger listened to the clang of the telegraph and waited for the increasing tremble beneath his feet which would tell him that the great screw was fighting to stop the ship’s relentless dash to destruction. He controlled the raging fury of anxiety and anger which made him want to scream at Kohler’s stupid mask of a face.

  With great care he took a cheroot from his case and lit it with enforced slowness. He could hear the twitter of the bosun’s pipes from up forward, followed instantaneously by the trample of running feet and orders shouted hoarsely in the darkness. It seemed an age since he had entered the wheelhouse, although it was only seconds. He had recognised immediately the seeds of demoralised chaos, and had been sickened by it. From his position he could see the iceberg quite clearly now, and he knew that to a less experienced eye it would appear as if it was already touching the stem. He stared along the deck at this silent adversary and waited. He could hear the helmsman’s uneven breathing, and one of the lookouts muttering to himself as if in prayer. He stiffened as a small piece of ice detached itself from the top of the berg and seemed to float down to the sea like a feather. There was no sound, but he guessed that the piece of ice weighed many tons.

  Dehler arrived breathless on the bridge, and von Steiger said softly: ‘Ring the masthead lookout, Dehler. There seems to have been a fault somewhere!’

  Dehler licked his lips, fascinated by the iceberg. ‘Can we get clear?’

  ‘I think so. We have had good warning, thanks to this man.’ He spoke over his shoulder. ‘What is your name?’

  The reply was subdued, even frightened. ‘Pieck, sir. I—I was on top of the wheelhouse, sir!’

  Von Steiger clenched his fists inside his pockets. Was it his imagination, or was the ship beginning to go astern? He waited, not trusting himself to speak. A few more seconds might have been too much for the ship. Her four and a half thousand tons, with a following sea to help the thrust of her screw, would have been hurled against the foot of the berg, and that would have been the end, if they were lucky. If they were not, the ship would have slit open her round bilge on a razor-billed ledge, deep below the surface, and then sunk slowly. To die up here in these bitter wastes would have been too terrible to contemplate. The thought made him angry, and he hardly looked up when a lookout reported wildly: ‘We’re going astern, sir! She’s pulling clear!’

  So I have done it again. His lips curled as if with contempt for himself. The iron captain who is always beyond criticism.

  He whirled round with sudden impatience. ‘Take over the ship, Dehler. Put her ahead and steer south-west until you are clear of his ice. Reduced speed for an hour, and we will see what happens.’

  He looked from Kohler to Wildermuth, his eyes bleak. ‘What happened, Kohler? Why was there no report? Was the masthead lookout asleep?’ He waited, tapping his foot.

  Kohler stood rigidly at attention. ‘He deserted his post, Captain!’

  Von Steiger turned his face away and watched the pale mist, which now hid the iceberg completely. ‘Deserted?’ Soft, half disbelieving.

  Kohler nodded vigorously, some confidence returning to his voice. ‘Yes, sir. The duty petty officer has just found him lying on the maindeck. He has broken his leg, and says that he was going below to get warm, sir.’ He licked his lips, his voice ingratiating. ‘I had no idea this could happen, Captain. I have a bad watch to work with. I have to carry all of them, sir.’

  Von Steiger turned to Wildermuth. ‘And is that your explanation also?’

  Wildermuth hung his head. ‘It is as Lieutenant Kohler has said, sir.’ What was the point of bringing up about the telephone message? he thought heavily. It was hard enough working with Lieutenant Kohler without adding to the unpleasantness. After all, he thought, it would not do the lookout, Braun, any harm to spend a few days in the cells because of his stupidity.

  Von Steiger felt the raw edge of the air for the first time. Until this moment he had not noticed that he was without his bridge-coat. They are both lying, he thought wearily. Something else happened, but I shall never know the truth. The one thing I must be sure of is that it will never happen again.

  Sharply he said: ‘I see. I trust that you will learn by this mistake, and control your watch in future!’

  Kohler nodded eagerly. ‘It will not happen again, sir!’

  ‘That is true!’ He eyed them coldly, hating them both. ‘I have already told you the importance of eternal vigilance. In this war only the dead can afford the luxury of carelessness.’

  Kohler showed his teeth. ‘I will put him in the deepest cell, Captain. It will help to improve his memory!’

  As if he had not heard, von Steiger continued, his tone flat and remorseless, ‘By the authority vested in me by the Emperor and the Admiralty, I hereby sentence this man, Braun, to death by shooting!’ He saw the horror forming on their faces and continued, ‘The sentence will be carried out at dawn tomorrow, the firing party to consist of all the masthead lookouts not on watch!’ He turned on his heel, adding harshly, ‘You and Wildermuth will supervise the execution!’

  Wildermuth took half a step forward, his hands outstretched. ‘But, sir . . .’

  In the doorway the yellow eyes glowed like a cat’s. ‘My men will respect their obligations, whatever the cost! You will all do well to remember that in future!’

  4

  FOR SIX DAYS and nights the Vulkan drove west and south round the bleak coast of Iceland. There was neither light during the day, nor even a glimpse of a star at night, and throughout that incredible journey the weather reached such a pitch of fury and destructive vehemence that the ship seemed to have been condemned to a nightmare of wind and mountainous seas. Since the first encounter with the solitary iceberg the weather had steadily worsened, so that as they battled blindly round Iceland’s North Cape the wind which screamed down from the Arctic reached over one hundred knots, and the waves towered over the weather side and curled their overhanging crests in readiness to strike her open decks and send her yawing on to her beam.

  The men had stopped wondering at each mounting onslaught, and were no longer capable of thought of any kind. They went on watch, clinging together like frightened children, and waited for their spell of duty to end. Then, sapped of all resistance, they fell into their sodden bunks, or lay without feeling on the canting decks. Even then they were not safe from the urgent whistle from the Deck Watch. One of the boats was torn free of its davits and flung like matchwood across the bulwarks. Wires parted, and canvas dodgers were blown to nothing, seconds after replacement. Numb and senseless, the seaman spliced, and struggled across the treacherous decks with new ropes and stays, while all the time their tiny, isolated world swung on a giddy pendulum, and tried to trip their tired feet and send them spinning away into the great patches of streaky foam which seethed around the ship like steam.

  Sometimes they were dragged on deck to face the weather when the ever-present menace of ice made itself felt in the shape of huge patches of trapped sea-water freezing into fantastic blocks of immovable proportions. With axes and hammers, steam hoses and iron bars, they worked like fiends, sweating beneath their oilskins in spite of the cold which held the ship in its remorseless grip.

  After nearly a week of this torment they had at last reached the North Atlantic, and as the waves thundered against the hull they ploughed their way slowly yet steadily eastwards, every turn of the screw taking them nearer and nearer to an alien shore.

  The mine stood on the small slipway which overhung the Vulkan’s poop, its dull black sphere stark against the white creaming wake, which, straight and clean, disappeared into the night astern of the racing screw. Heuss stared through the darkness at the mine, fascinated by its long horns, which gave it the appearance of an obscene creature from another world. The last of the mines, he thought. The last of a long field which the raider had laid during the previous four hours, throughout which time the nerves of every man aboard had been stretched to breaking point as the ship steamed along its set course, lookouts peering into the night, and each man gritting his teeth as a fresh mine plummeted down from the stern. Each one would splash into the wake, and instantly vanish. When the water calmed and the raider had gone on her way, the black eggs with their sensitive horns would be floating below the surface, held captive by their sinkers and long cables, to wait with the same terrible patience they had shown since they had been loaded at Kiel.

  Lieutenant Kohler held a small shaded lamp against his wrist, peering at his stopwatch and counting the seconds. He staggered against the poop’s swooping, sickening movement, and then said sharply: ‘Right! Release!’

  The seamen heaved at their jacks, and the mine trundled on its trolley along the slipway. It faltered, staggered and plunged over the edge.

  Heuss gritted his teeth again, but the men who had converted the banana-boat to a raider knew their job. The mine vanished into the gloom. The slipway was empty, and Heuss turned away, suddenly sickened.

  The muttering of the seamen about him faded, and even the roar and hiss of the sea seemed to disappear.

  He had been on watch the morning when the lookout Braun, had been shot. I shall never forget that moment! He stared down into the water, his hands gripping the guardrail.

  There had been endless preparations, and all the time the wretched Braun had sat propped on the mine slipway, his broken leg sticking out in front of him, neat in its splints and bandages. Opposite him, barely yards away, the firing party stood in a swaying line, their heavy Mauser rifles gripped in gloved hands. Two petty officers tied Braun’s hands behind him and took away his cap, so that he looked even more defenceless than before. Kohler and Wildermuth had stood side by side, the latter sick and grey-faced, but Kohler upright and expressionless.

  The petty officers dragged a length of rusty chain and tied it quickly to the victim’s waist. His own sinker for the final journey.

  It was then that Braun recovered from his state of shocked silence and began to scream. Heuss’s blood turned cold as he relived each agonising second.

  ‘Don’t let them do it! Tell them I tried to get help, sir!’ His eyes rolled white in his ashen face. ‘For God’s sake help me!’

  Kohler drew his sword and raised it above his head. Eight rifles swayed, and then steadied on the writhing figure before them.

  There was a ragged volley as Kohler’s sword sliced downwards, and when the wind whipped away the smoke, the slipway was empty. Not even a drop of blood to mark the murder. Only the man’s cap in a petty officer’s hand to show what had happened.

  Heuss had pushed into the wheelhouse and then halted. Von Steiger still sat in his chair, his eyes fixed on some invisible point ahead of the bows. Heuss had said, ‘Execution carried out, Captain!’ He could not keep the tremble from his voice.

  Von Steiger answered slowly: ‘I could not escape my responsibilities, Lieutenant. And neither, I fear, can you!’

  Heuss walked away, and then on impulse returned to stand behind the Captain. ‘Was it absolutely necessary to kill that man, Captain? Haven’t we enough to stomach already?’

  ‘It became necessary. My officers must be upheld, right or wrong.’

  Heuss clenched his fists, conscious of Ebert’s worried glance through the side window. ‘How do you think the men will feel about this, sir?’

  ‘The men?’ Von Steiger sounded distant. ‘Whatever they feel, they will do as I say!’ He twisted round to face Heuss, who was shocked to see the pain on his tired face. ‘Because, Heuss, we are not playing a game any more! Forget your misplaced sentiment, and you will begin to understand! Of course I want victory with honour! But most of all I want victory! War in itself is evil, and we cannot disguise it by our own stupidity!’

  Heuss had continued to stare at him, shocked still more by von Steiger’s calm tone. Inwardly he cursed himself. What was the use of trying to fight this man? He was without a soul. You need none of us, he thought, and our admiration and hate affects you as little as rain upon a stone. He heard himself persist, ‘But, Captain, if we lose our belief in humanity, what else is there?’

  Von Steiger had regarded him for several seconds. ‘Nothing, Lieutenant! Nothing at all!’

  Heuss shook himself, and once more the sea’s roar intruded on his racing thoughts. He heard the seamen chattering as they scampered back to their messdecks. Perhaps they do not care after all, he thought. Von Steiger seemed to know even the inner thoughts of his men, although he never left the bridge. He was uncanny, like an unravelled legend.

  It was a week since they had sunk the little steamer, and they had covered nearly eighteen hundred sea miles in their detour around Iceland. Because of the unbroken cloud they had been unable to use a sextant, and watchkeeping and navigation had become mere guesswork. The ship had made endless alterations of course and speed in the maelstrom of storm and noise, yet here they were, and somewhere across the plunging bows lay Ireland and the northern approaches to England. How did von Steiger do it? Bluff, or some supreme power which made them all so small in his hands?

  The ship gathered way and swung on to her new course. A smell of boiled cabbage floated from the galley, and as he passed Heuss heard a seaman describing the minelaying to a cook. ‘. . . a terrible death!’ the voice said.

  Heuss faltered, and heard the cook answer with decision. ‘Death? Who the hell cares about that? You would do better to worry about piles or rheumatism in this damned ship!’ The philosophy of the lower deck!

  * * * * *

  Von Steiger sat in his tall chair, his hands leafing through the Chief Engineer’s latest reports. The ship moved in slow, labouring rolls across the empty grey Atlantic, and beyond the bows, which pointed unwaveringly to the south-west, the horizon was a clear, hard line.