The Sea Break (20 page)

“So you’re certain? We’ve had false alarms before.”

“Not from me you haven’t, old cock.”

The older man unlocked the safe, took out the cipher books, went back to his desk, wrote a message on the signal pad, tore it off and passed it to McMasters. “Check that before I encipher it, will you?”

Frowning, McMasters read it and passed it back. “What time d’you reckon combined ops. will get it?”

“Within four hours, I’d say.”

“Seems awfully slow.”

“It is. It’s telegraphed through civilian channels to a Cape Town commercial address. All things considered, it’s not bad.”

“Four hours—four hours,” mused McMasters. “She’ll be sixty or seventy miles away by then. She could get away.”

The pale man was irritated. “Of course she could! But a great many people will be going to a great deal of trouble to-morrow morning to see that she doesn’t.”

“It’ll be like the cock we made of the
Tannenfels
.”
McMasters’s shoulders lifted in a gesture of despair, “We should have our own W/T outfit here.”

“In a consulate general—in a neutral country in wartime? —my dear Peter. You’re obviously not a diplomat.” The older man talked slowly, mechanically, his mind on the message he was enciphering, yet aware of what he was
saying
.

McMasters sat down on the edge of the desk, took out a cigarette case, lit a cigarette and pulled at it. “God! I wish I was at sea. Outside. In something that could go fast.”

“Perhaps they’ll send you back to sea now, Peter. But I doubt it. You’re too valuable here.”

“Valuable!” McMasters made a rude noise. “Sneaking between coal trucks on the Gorjao Quay every ruddy night. And the local English thinking I’m dodging the battle. What a way to spend the war.”

“I know. Distressing, isn’t it?” The man wrote steadily, his voice quiet, soothing, absent-minded.

McMasters got up and stared at the bent head. “You’re not listening to a word I’m saying, George. I can tell. And here am I,
passionately
upset.”

“Be a good chap, Peter, and shut up. I
must
concentrate.”

It was hot and stuffy in Herr Stauch’s office, and wisps of smoke rose from the ash-tray on his desk which was heaped with half-smoked cigarettes. Stauch sat at the desk in his shirt sleeves, beads of perspiration looking like transparent warts on his face, his eyes, normally deep-set, protruding and the veins standing out on his forehead. Pulling himself to his feet, his face working with emotion, he came round the desk and glared at the man on the other side. In his hand Stauch held a black book with well-worn pages. When he spoke his voice was thick: “
G-B-A-J
are the signal letters of the
Clan
McPhilly,
and you—you stand there and tell me that
two
ships gave the same signals. So that means
two
Clan
McPhillys,
which is not possible. Even a dolt like you, Kleinschmidt, will agree that
that is not possible! Then you tell me that the first ship looked like a German ship——”

“
Was
a German ship,” corrected the young man stolidly.

“
Of
course
it was——!” Stauch’s voice rose. “You yourself say it was the
Hagenfels
,
that she has left the anchorage—and a moment ago I had a message from the
Dortmund
saying that they had seen her go——” He stopped, short of breath, his small eyes flashing.

The young man shifted his feet. “I do not understand, Herr Stauch, why you are so upset? Surely it is a good thing that the ship has gone. Soon she will be giving fuel and supplies to our U-boats and raiders—surely that is——”

‘
Ruhe!
Schweigen
Sie!
—Silence! Shut up!” Stauch lifted his hand, glaring at Kleinschmidt. “I am not here to listen to your babbling.” He came closer to the young man. “You say you do not understand why I am upset—Well, I shall tell you.” He waved his forefinger in the young man’s face. “I am upset, Herr Kleinschmidt, because
no
signal
has
come
from
the
Wilhelmstrasse
—do you understand? Because that man! —that—that great aristocrat, the Freiherr von Falkenhausen, has decided for himself to take the
Hagenfels
to sea—
with
half
a
crew.
Er
ist
verrükt
!
He’s mad, I tell you!”

Stauch was shouting now, his face thrust into Kleinschmidt’s, the big body trembling with rage. “He is too
important
to confide in Otto Stauch—Oh, yes! Far too important. After all, Otto Stauch does only the dirty work, takes all the risks, but he is not sufficiently important to be entrusted with the Freiherr’s secrets. He must have known all along that he was sailing to-night——” He stopped, frowning, panting for breath, the receding eyes full of bewilderment. “But
how
can he go without the signal from the Wilhelmstrasse?” he pleaded. “
How
can the
Hagenfels
rendezvous with the ships outside if they do not know she has gone?”

“The
Hagenfels
has her own wireless, Herr Stauch.” The young man was diffident. “She can always——”

The fat man spun round on him. “So! So! You think so.
You think a raider supply vessel can risk breaking wireless silence to tell every British warship off the coast where she is? Idiot!” He glared at the young man; then, still frowning and with that bewildered look in the deep-set eyes, he went back to his desk. “All right,” he said gruffly, now resigned, penitent. “You can go, Kleinschmidt. I am sorry. It was not
your
fault. Now I shall have to let the Wilhelmstrasse know. They will have to inform the U-boats and raiders.” He lifted a tired arm: “
Heil
Hitler!”

“
Heil
Hitler!” repeated the young man.

Turning on his heel he opened the door and was gone.

The
Hagenfels
reached the end of the Polana Channel at 2335 and as she did so the Newt called out from the chart-house: “Alter to o-seven-o now, Steve.”

Widmark passed the alteration of course to Rohrbach who was on the wheel, and the light at Ponta Garapao moved slowly from starboard to port as the ship’s head came round on to 070 degrees.

Widmark went back to the bridge-screen and looked into the darkness. The stern light of the gunboat was no longer visible, but the blackness ahead was broken at regular intervals by tiny stabs of red and white light. “See those, Newt?”

“Yes. They mark the passage between the Serra and Ribeiro shoals.”

“How’s the tide?”

“Should be north going at two to three knots, but I think there’s a good deal of easting in it judging by the way we’re nipping along.”

“What’ve we been making good?”

“About sixteen. Pretty good for a seventeen knot ship with a foul bottom.”

“Not bad. What time’s daylight?”

“About 0515.”

“H’m. We’ll have steamed the best part of a hundred miles by then.”

“Just about. I think——”

Widmark interrupted him. “Run along to the W/T cabin, see how Mike’s getting on and ask him if he’s heard anything over the voice radio.
Clan
McPhilly
should be making her number to Ponta Vermelha about now.”

A few minutes later the Newt was back on the bridge, short
of breath, but calm as ever. “There’s fun and games in the harbour. I’ve been listening in on the Port Captain’s frequency.
Quel
drame
!”
He paused for effect.

“Come on,” Widmark was nervy and tense. “Let’s have it!”

“One—they’ve stopped the
Clan
McPhilly
off Ponta
Vermelha
. Told her that a boat’s coming out to her and she’s not to proceed until further notice. Two—they’ve alerted the pilot cutter and the
Bartolomeu
Dias
. She’s the gunboat ahead of us.”

“Poor old McRobert. But he’ll be able to cope. I told him this would probably happen. They won’t delay him long, but for our sake I hope they’re not too quick. Wonder how long it’ll be before they wake up to the fact that the
Hagenfels
has sailed.”

“Shouldn’t think it’ll be long now, Steve.”

“Anyway, there’s nothing they can do about it.” In spite of what he said, Widmark’s voice was strained; he was, though the Newt didn’t know it, reassuring himself. “A German ship’s perfectly entitled to make a break for the sea if she’s prepared to take the chance.”

The Newt was silent, thinking about something which was worrying them both. At last he voiced it: “As long as they believe it
is
a German break out.”

“I think,” said Widmark slowly, “that it’s going to be a long time, if ever, before they can
prove
that it wasn’t. We’ve got the only evidence they could use against us.”

“The Jerries, you mean?”

“Yes. And the women.”

It was about twenty minutes later, after they’d passed the Serra Shoal, that Widmark, fretting with anxiety about the wireless situation, again sent the Newt to see how Mike Kent was getting on. The last report had been a cheerless one.

The Newt went off and Widmark was left on the bridge with his thoughts. When Chefine Island was well astern he switched off the navigation lights and the black unlit bulk of
the
Hagenfels
moved purposefully through the night. It was past midnight, they were fifteen miles from Lourenço Marques, and the sound of the engines, the tang of the sea air and the ship’s slow lift to the swells coming in from seaward were sedatives to his tired nerves.

He began to whistle, quietly but confidently.

In the wireless cabin Mike Kent was working harder than he had ever worked in his life, stripping broken parts, testing, improvising, patching and repairing, but while he did this he felt hopeless and frustrated and full of doubt. It was bad enough that the equipment was strange to him and that he had to learn the circuits as he worked; but there was no one to work with him, to pass things and to hold things and to do all sorts of odds and ends to speed up the work.

He had found in a cupboard a set of tools, a soldering outfit, more circuit testers, and many of the other things he needed; there were, too, some spare valves; but there were valves, on the transmitting side particularly, which had been destroyed, for which he could find no replacements.

When for the second time the Newt came down from the bridge to find out how he was getting on, Mike Kent said: “I’m doing my best. There’s so much that’s smashed that I haven’t a clue whether I’ll ever get the thing to work.” There was a note of despair in his voice.

He didn’t ask for help because he knew there wasn’t any to be had; they were already down to the barest minimum, operating the ship and guarding prisoners with seven men where twice that number would not have been too many. But the Newt’s sympathetic eye spotted the young man’s difficulty; saw how he tried to do more things at once than two hands could cope with.

“Wouldn’t it help things along if you had an assistant, Mike?”

The youngster was bent down, one hand holding a circuit tester at eye level while the other groped for something at the
top of the transmitting panel. His hair was dishevelled, the stove-polish on his hands and face was moist and streaked with sweat, and at times he had to stop to clean his glasses. The magnitude of his task, the knowledge of its importance, his feelings of inadequacy, had brought him close to tears, and his voice trembled. “Of course it would. But what a hope.”

“Would a woman do?” The Newt watched him curiously. “A young one?”

Mike stopped working, looked at him and smiled forlornly, but with relief. The Newt had thought of something which had never occurred to him.

“Marvellous idea, sir. Try and get one who’s keen on radio.”

Back on the bridge, the Newt reported the situation to Widmark who said: “Of course. First-class idea. What’s more, ask McFadden if he’d like one to help him in the
engine-room
.”

The Newt started off down the bridge ladder.

Widmark called after him: “Tell the girls to make some coffee in the Captain’s pantry and push it round. Sandwiches, too, if they’re feeling energetic.”

Soon afterwards, Hester Smit, smiling cheerfully, went to the wireless cabin, saw Mike Kent’s back and tapped him on the shoulder. “I’m Hester Smit,” she said. “They say I must help you.”

He turned round and saw a large, cheerful young woman. “Know anything about radios?”

“I can switch them on and off.”

“Good! You’ll be terrifically useful. My name’s Mike Kent. I’m jolly glad you’ve come.”

She looked at the panels of equipment behind him and at the tangle of wires and the dismantled parts on the desk. “Heavens! Somebody’s been having a good time.”

“One of the Jerries. He tried to smash everything.”

“
Tried
!
I’d say he succeeded, Mike. By the way, I suppose you know your hands and face are black.”

“Yes. You’ll find some of us like that. They say it comes off.”

“I wonder what you really look like?”

“Terrible. Come on. Let’s get cracking.”

Widmark, concentrating on the task of getting the
Hagenfels
safely out to sea through the shoals which lay scattered across the bay, took a bearing of the flashing light which marked the Ribeiro Shoal. Leaving the compass on the monkey island, he came down the ladder to the bridge deck and went into the wheel-house.

“Steer two degrees to starboard, David.”

Rohrbach repeated the order and then reported: “Steering o-six-seven, sir.”

“We’re being set to port,” explained Widmark before going back to the foreside of the bridge.

Peering ahead into the darkness he was nagged by doubts about the women, for the Newt’s idea of getting them to work had reminded him forcibly of their existence; an existence which, but for an occasional thought for Cleo in the cabin below, he’d almost forgotten. In the long and careful planning which had gone into the operation, there had never been any question of women on board; and yet when he’d first heard of Lindemann’s party, the advantages of using it to get his men into the Captain’s cabin had seemed to outweigh enormously the disadvantages. Now he was not so sure. Now that the ship was at sea and the real hazards of the break out were at hand, increased
immeasurably
by the sabotaging of the wireless equipment, he had these nagging doubts. Hester Smit and Di Brett were all right because they were British. Cleo was all right—she was a Greek and, anyway, the least problem of them all because, though she might not know it, he was going to marry her. But Mariotta—she was the problem. She was Portuguese. How could he make sure that she wouldn’t talk? Was there any hope that she wouldn’t? Of course it would be her word against theirs, and all the paraphernalia of wartime censorship
and security would hang over the affair and operate to the advantage of his side. But it was a nasty thought, all the same. If they could get the transmitter working and inform
Simonstown
of the break out, let them know that the
Hagenfels
was heading for Durban in the hands of a South African naval party, all would be well. It was the fear that they wouldn’t that worried him. If things went wrong the situation with which he’d be confronted would be a disastrous one. He’d flatly disobeyed orders, breached Portuguese neutrality, and now he’d added the further complication of getting women involved and one of them a Portuguese. It was certain that he’d face a court-martial if the operation failed. And quite possibly if it succeeded.

The sound of steps on the bridge ladder, lighter and more subdued than those of Rohrbach and the Newt, alerted him and he turned to see a dark shape come on to the bridge and stop near him.

Instinctively his hand slid down to his shoulder-holster and on to the butt of the automatic. “Tally-Ho!” he snapped.

From the darkness a woman’s voice answered, querulous and frigntened. “Oh! I have the coffee.”

With a pleasant sense of shock Widmark recognised her voice but because he could not see her she seemed remote and unreal; the circumstances were so bizarre—he there in the darkness with blackened hands and face, so much recent violence still fresh in his mind, and twenty feet away the body of Günther Moewe.

Rather tamely, he said: “Hallo, Cleo. This is jolly good of you.”

“Is that
you
, Stephen?”

“Yes. Funny, isn’t it? I mean, I didn’t think this would be how we’d next meet.”

“Didn’t you?” Her manner changed. “I understood you planned all this. Surely it should not be a surprise.”

He went up to her then and in the darkness found the tray she was carrying and took from it the two cups of coffee. There
was no answer, really, to what she’d said. Something in him, a mixture of disappointment and remorse, made him say: “Oh, well. It can’t be helped.” And then after an awkward pause he added: “Thanks for the coffee. I’ll give this cup to Rohrbach. He’s on the wheel.”

When he got back from the wheelhouse she’d gone.

A few minutes after Cleo had left the bridge, the Newt came back from the wireless cabin. He was breathless and excited. “Steve, a few minutes ago the Port Captain ordered the
Bartolomeu
Dias
to reverse her course and stop us because we left harbour without port authority and made a false report to Ponta Vermelha.”

“Why wasn’t I told immediately?”

“Hester Smit’s working in the W/T cabin—Mike has the voice receiver on the Port Captain’s frequency—and she speaks Portuguese. When I got there she told me there’d been a lot of chatter a few minutes ago, and when I said what about, she said about the
Bartolomeu
Dias
being told to return to harbour. She didn’t realise it was important, and then while I was there—just a moment ago—the other message came through ordering the gunboat to stop us.”

“Chart-house, quick!” Widmark shot off in the darkness, the Newt following. They concentrated on the chart, their minds full of this new threat, their nerves jangling.

“How far ahead of us d’you put her, Newt?”

The Englishman set to work with dividers and wrist-watch, and after a short silence he said: “At her full speed—say, twenty knots—she must have got ten or eleven miles ahead. But she was ordered to reverse her course five minutes ago. Allowing for a bit of argy-bargy on the bridge and time to turn, she’s probably six or seven miles ahead of us now and closing fast. Our combined speeds must be about thirty-six knots.”

“Thank God they haven’t got radar yet.” Widmark
concentrated
on the chart, looking at the outline of the Ribeiro Shoal, at the tortuous and narrow channel to the north of it,
bounded on the landward side by the complex of shoals off the mouth of the Incomati River, its thin neck no more than a few hundred yards across. Quickly he made his decision.

“We’re going
inside
the Ribeiro Shoal. That’ll put the
Bartolomeu
Dias
on the one side of it and us on the other. It’s five miles long, so even if she sees us she can’t do anything about it. But on a dark night like this they’ll never see a blacked-out ship to the north of the shoal.”

The Newt looked at the chart with renewed intensity, absorbing what he saw. Then his eyebrows went up and he looked at Widmark. “It’s taking one hell of a chance, Steve. There’s not much water there. Only twenty-four feet at mean low water springs, and it’s bloody narrow.”

“You’ll be able to get bearings on the Garapao and Ribeiro lights. We won’t be going it blind, and we know what the set’s doing. Anyway we’ve no option. If we keep to this buoyed channel we’ll run slap into the
Bartolomeu
Dias
. Switch on the echo-sounder, pronto, and let me know if the water shoals below twenty-six feet. We’ve had two hours of ebb, so there’ll be two to three feet on top of the charted depths. There’s not much swell. We’re only drawing about twenty-two feet. But first give me the course to clear the southern tip of the shoal. Make it snappy!”