An Honorable German (10 page)

The captain hesitated, binoculars still focused ahead. Langsdorff put the cigar back between his teeth. “We have not yet been
fully tested,” Langsdorff said, taking the binoculars from his eyes. “The enemy is here, and we must fight for our honor and
the honor of our flag.”

Max snapped off a sharp salute. “Jawohl, Herr Kapitän.”

Max and Langsdorff turned again to face the three warships strung out along the horizon.

“Bridge,” screeched the telephone talker, “B-Service reports transmission in the clear.”

“Read it out.”

“Signal from
Exeter
: ‘Immediate to Admiralty. One pocket battleship zero three four degrees south, zero four nine degrees west. Course two seven
five degrees.’”

And so the Royal Navy had found them at last. Max’s stomach muscles tightened.

“Signaling again in the clear: ‘From
Exeter
, general broadcast merchant ships. One pocket battleship, thirty-four degrees south, forty-nine degrees west, steering two
three six. Am engaging forthwith. Stand off.’”

Big brother shooing the flock out of harm’s way. Langsdorff nodded. His face was calm. “Have gunnery begin calling down the
range,” he said to Max.

“Jawohl, Herr Kapitän.”

“And Oberleutnant.”

“Herr Kapitän?”

“Run up the battle flag.”

“Yes, sir!” Max said, grinning as he passed the captain’s order. Quickly the signalman broke out the red, white, and black
naval ensign of the Kriegsmarine and hoisted it above the ship. Atlantic wind caught the banner and it streamed out over
Graf Spee
.

On the navigating bridge stood Langsdorff, Max, a deputy watch officer, and Hollendorf. As second navigator, Hollendorf tracked
Graf Spee
’s exact position as she began to twist and turn in the coming battle. Also on the bridge stood the four signalmen who would
pass Langsdorff’s fighting orders through the ship by phone and voice tube. Four additional messengers stood by to run orders
manually if the phones were knocked out. Two sailors manned each of the engine telegraphs. Rolf, the bridge steward, was on
hand to provide sandwiches and coffee.

While the enlisted men waited silently at their posts, Max and the other officers trained their binoculars on the charging
British cruisers. It seemed unreal to Max, like a practice shoot in the Baltic. In their two and a half months of commerce
raiding, nobody had actually fired on them.

One of the bridge signalmen chanted the range as it came in over his earphones. “Twelve kilometers, eleven and three-quarters,
eleven and a half…”

The British had the curious habit, left over from the days when all wooden warships looked alike, of flying gigantic battle
ensigns. As
Exeter
drove toward
Spee
, Max watched the huge red-and-white flags break over the cruiser—two up the radio aerials, two more up the signal masts.
If they were hauled down before the end of the battle, it could have but one meaning: H.M.S.
Exeter
had surrendered. Unlikely, Max knew. A Royal Navy warship had not surrendered in a sea battle for a hundred and fifty years.

Above one of the ensigns flew a yellow signal flag—the classic signal of the Royal Navy:
Enemy in sight
.

At ten kilometers,
Exeter
changed course ninety degrees to her left and ran perpendicular to
Graf Spee
. Now all of
Exeter
’s guns bore on
Spee
, while only
Spee
’s forward guns bore on
Exeter
.

Alarmed, Langsdorff bypassed Max and stepped directly to the voicepipe. “Helmsman, hard port. Come to new course of one two
zero!”
Spee
heeled sharply to port and began running parallel to
Exeter
.
Exeter
’s two comrades then altered course so they, too, steamed parallel to
Graf Spee
, but in the opposite direction. Max knew the light cruisers would steer a wide arc, cross
Spee
’s stern, and come up on the other side. They would try to compel
Spee
to divide the punishing fire of her eleven-inch guns.

Silence again on the bridge. Max felt a tremor in his legs. Only the enclosed portion of the navigating bridge had any protection
at all—an inch of steel plate to stop shell splinters. They could pull steel scuttles down over the large portholes, but then
they wouldn’t be able to see anything. The open bridge wings had no protection of any kind against incoming fire, just salt
air and a flawless view of the British guns taking dead aim.

“Range of
Exeter
?”

“Nine and a half kilometers now, Herr Kapitän.”

“Commence against
Exeter
,” Langsdorff ordered, his voice as soft and pleasant as if he were ordering coffee.

Max came to attention. “Jawohl, Herr Kapitän.” He seized the gunnery phone.

“Gunnery, aye.”

“Order from captain: target is
Exeter
. Repeat, target is
Exeter
. Commence main battery fire.”

The firing gong sounded through the ship. The main batteries fired. Max was nearly thrown off balance by the force of the
recoil. Black gun smoke lingered briefly over
Spee
, to be snatched away by the wind. Close to
Exeter
, geysers of white water shot into the air. “Note to log,” Langsdorff said to Hollendorf, “
Graf Spee
commenced firing against
Exeter
at zero six eighteen.”

“Over!” Max shouted.

Orange halos blossomed from
Exeter
’s guns.

“He’s fired!” yelped the young telephone talker.

“Steady,” Langsdorff said, hands clasped behind his back like a squire looking over his acres.

A half kilometer from
Graf Spee
the incoming shells struck the ocean and sent up towers of water.

High above the bridge in their directing tower, the gunnery control team peered through their optical instruments, calculating
Exeter
’s range, course, and speed, sending this data to a mechanical tabulator deep in the armored bowels of the ship. This tabulator
computed the trajectory of the shells and automatically trained
Graf Spee
’s main batteries. The recoil of the naval cannon comprising the main battery also had to be computed since a full broadside
by both turrets heeled the ship over by five degrees or more.

In
Spee
’s armored turrets, the deafened sailors, bundled up in their anti-flash overalls, frantically worked the huge naval cannons,
ramming a six-hundred-seventy-pound shell hydraulically into the barrel, followed by a silk-wrapped powder charge. When the
gun captain slammed home the breechblock, the ready light blinked on in the gun directing tower. The gunnery officer pressed
the orange firing button and an electric current ignited the cordite, blowing the shell from the barrel. The gun crew flung
open the breech, blasted the inside of the cannon with compressed air to clear any burning residue, thrust in a long-handled
mop and swabbed out the barrel. In with a new shell and cordite charge and they were ready to fire.

The wind picked up and ruffled the sea.
Exeter
and
Graf Spee
plowed through the waves, spitting shells back and forth, disfiguring the water with angry spouts as the shots fell off the
mark. Max kept his binoculars fixed on the British ship. His body shook each time
Spee
’s forward battery fired. Black smoke drifted up from its barrels and eddied through the bridge. Finally, a hole opened in
Exeter
’s midships.

“We hit her!” Max shouted.

But
Exeter
’s broadside flamed out again, its report audible across the water. This time
Graf Spee
shook. Max saw nothing. Must be aft of the bridge. The main batteries were unharmed. They had to fire faster.

Max lost all sense of time as the Krupp-built cannons fired again and again, every twenty seconds, their muzzle blasts shaking
the ship. Smoke draped
Spee
, spray from near misses washing over her sides. Langsdorff shouted helm and engine orders over the roar of the guns. Both
ships steamed at emergency full ahead, smoke pouring from their stacks. The engine room would be unbearably hot and loud,
dark and claustrophobic. Below the waterline, hatches battened down, they knew little of what was going on above. The ship’s
loudspeaker provided updates for many of the crew belowdecks, but these announcements could not be heard in the engine room
over the terrific roar of the diesels. During battle, Dieter and his mates were the safest men aboard, but if
Spee
sank they would never get out.

The captain continually swung his binoculars from
Exeter
to the two light cruisers now crossing his wake, many kilometers astern. Max had nearly lost his hearing. Acrid cordite smoke
burned his throat and brought tears to his eyes.

Again
Exeter
fired. Seawater thrown up by the near miss sprayed onto the main deck and drenched the sailors out in the open, sluicing
across the teakwood boards. The ship rocked and Max almost lost his footing. As he grabbed the handrail, a shell struck with
a violent explosion, ripping metal with a terrible screech. The force threw Langsdorff down. Max jumped to the captain’s side
and knelt over him. “Herr Kapitän! Herr Kapitän!” Gun smoke billowed across the trembling bridge. Max seized the captain by
the lapels of his uniform coat. “Herr Kapitän Langsdorff!”

Above the roar of the guns, Hollendorf bellowed helm orders as he temporarily guided the racing ship, shifting her a few degrees
off their base course every thirty seconds and then back so
Spee
would never steam in a straight line. Langsdorff opened his eyes, shook himself, and let Max help him up. “I’m fine, I’m
fine,” the captain said. “The others?”

“No casualties, Herr Kapitän.”

“Very well.”

The shell had struck the deck below them; the bridge only received the secondary shock wave. The ship rocked again as another
shell found home. Flames shot up from the port bow. Damage reports streamed in, and Max tried to make sense of them.
Spee
was riddled with holes, but all her guns still fired.

Once again he focused his binoculars on
Exeter
. The British heavy cruiser was also on fire in several places and down by the bow. One of her forward turrets was out of
action, its steel case split by a direct hit, the gun crew certainly killed. The two light cruisers had almost completed their
arc. They readied to fire on
Graf Spee
from the opposite side, but
Spee
’s main guns ignored them. Another explosion and
Exeter
’s second forward turret split open, too. Smoke engulfed the ship’s front half, and only her single stern turret continued
to fire. They battered her; the British ship wouldn’t be able to take much more.

But
Exeter
fought on. Above her flaming decks, the white battle ensigns waved defiantly. Below one of the ensigns flew the time-honored
signal of the Royal Navy since Nelson’s day:
Engage the enemy more closely
.

Suddenly, one of
Graf Spee
’s shells split open the steel cocoon of
Exeter
’s rear turret. Smoke poured now from her stern as well; she was out of guns. Max watched in disbelief as the huge burning
ship slowly turned her course to converge with
Graf Spee
. “She’s turning into us,” he shouted to the captain.

Langsdorff ignored the warning. The two light cruisers now closed the range and began to fire. With
Exeter
no longer shooting, Langsdorff could not spare the shells to finally sink her. “Train main batteries to starboard!” he ordered.
“Commence against light cruisers!”

Max spoke into the gunnery phone. “Order from captain: main batteries, commence against light cruisers. Repeat, main batteries
to commence against light cruisers.”

Momentarily the great cannons fell silent as they rotated to starboard on their ball-bearing rollers to meet the new threat.
The two smaller cruisers, now eight kilometers out, charged bows on at
Graf Spee
, their prows pointed at the center of
Spee
’s right flank.
Spee
’s main turrets opened fire as soon as they bore. Geysers of seawater ringed all three vessels.

At a range of five kilometers, the British ships heeled over and began running parallel to
Graf Spee
, communicating with each other in hoists of brilliantly colored signal flags. This turn brought all their guns to bear. The
cruisers opened a furious barrage. An English shell hit the fore part of the ship, carrying away a piece of the anchor chain.
Another smashed one of the launches. A moment later the starboard side of the low steel bridge wall blew open, spraying the
bridge with steel splinters. Max slammed to the deck beside Hollendorf and the deputy watch officer. Two signalmen fell, blood
spraying everywhere, running into the scuppers and fouling the deckboards. Langsdorff went down, too.

“Torpedoes!” a telephone talker yelled hoarsely, repeating what the lookouts were telling him. “Torpedoes fired to the starboard!”

Max scrambled to his feet. The captain was sprawled out cold, covered in blood. To the ship’s starboard side, a pair of torpedoes
plowed through the water, trailing white tracks from the compressed air that powered them. Max lunged for the speaking tube.
“Helmsman! Emergency right rudder!” He picked up the engine room phone and shouted, “Achtung! Full astern starboard, emergency
ahead port!”

The bow of
Graf Spee
turned ponderously into the torpedoes. Max braced himself against the jagged steel of the bridge, heart pounding, watching
the white arrows speed toward his ship. Sailors tumbled from their perches all over
Spee
as she heeled. Steel plates creaked in the turn, equipment crashing to the deck. Smoke billowed from the ship’s lone stack
and her bronze propellers thrashed the sea—the starboard prop full astern to drag them to the right, the port propeller pushing
them to starboard at emergency ahead. Max struck his leg with his fist in a determined rhythm as he watched the bow turn.
Faster. Faster. It seemed to be coming around in slow motion.