The Sea Break (23 page)

Widmark called the Newt into the wheelhouse where they discussed the signal problem with Rohrbach who plumped for flag hoists. Later, as the full implications of their dilemma became apparent, they were thoughtful and preoccupied.

A number of alternatives were considered before they decided that the most effective signal would be: “British prize—manned South African Navy.” A shorter message would have been better, but they saw no way of achieving it with
reasonable
safety. As it was, the signal would require five hoists amounting in all to sixteen flags, and five sets of halyards would have to be used. There were only three on the triatic stay and two on the fore yard-arm. They decided to use both the stay and the yard-arm.

In the chart-house they found the German edition of the International Code and the Newt took over the wheel so that Rohrbach could work on the signal; he took out the signal groups which made up the message and they pulled the flags from the signal lockers and bent them on to the halyards. From the fore yard-arm flew two hoists reading “
BRITISH
-
PRIZE
” and from the triatic stay the three hoists making up the rest of the signal: “
MANNED-SOUTH-AFRICAN-NAVY
.”

Some of the flags flew foul, but by hoisting and slackening the halyards in quick succession, and jerking on them, they got the flags clear. Seen from the bridge, they made a brave show. Widmark, however, was in no mood to deceive himself. Flag signals were all very well at close range: they were not when distances were measured in miles. But it was the best they could do. There was nothing for it now but to wait.

It was 0635. He wondered how far away the cruiser was.

Rohrbach pointed at the Walrus which had shifted her position from four points on the bow to the port beam.

“He’s seen our hoists go up,” Widmark sounded weary, “and he’s wondering what the hell it’s all about.” The only
wind of any consequence now was that made by the ship and since the flags were flying fore-and-aft the signal could only be read from abeam.

Once more the Walrus blinked “N-N-J”—again it followed up in plain language with “Make your signal letters.” Had they been able to make them it would have been a hoist of only four flags so Widmark could well understand the aircraft’s surprise at the
Hagenfels
’s lavish display of bunting.

“Must look like a make-and-mend,” he said sourly, but there was nothing funny about the situation and he could have shouted with frustration. Then he thought about the women and prisoners and the men in the engine-room. There might not be much time.

With a despairing glance at the circling Walrus, he turned to Johan. “Ask the women, Lindemann and von Falkenhausen to come up here. Tell them to make it snappy.”

When Widmark had explained the situation he asked the Germans if they could think of any other means of
communication
, but they couldn’t. Though they realised they were in danger, they made no secret of their admiration for what Paul Müller the steward had done.

The women, including Mariotta, who was still drowsy and making her first appearance of the day, were puzzled at first and then, as Widmark hinted at the dangers, they showed some apprehension, although he did his best to put a good face on things. When the position had been explained he said to Johan: “Lieutenant le Roux, you are to be responsible for the safety of the women. Concentrate with them in the stern until further orders. You’ll find a docking phone there through to the bridge.”

Johan was obviously not happy at the task given him, but he nodded and then looked at an exhausted Hester Smit whose face and hands were smudged with grease. “What about her?”

Widmark had forgotten Hester. After a moment’s pause he
said: “She can carry on with Mike Kent until I give the word. Then she must join you aft. That okay, Hester?”

She yawned, putting up her hand. “Of course. I can’t leave poor little Mike by himself. He’ll never make it alone.”

Johan beckoned to the girls. “Come along, please.” Cleo looked at Widmark for a moment as if she wished to say something, but she must have thought better of it for she turned and went after the others.

When they’d gone Widmark said to von Falkenhausen and Lindemann: “You’ll have to be responsible for your men. We may have to abandon ship. If so we’ll use the disengaged side. Concentrate there and await orders if and when the time comes.” Purposely Widmark had not told the women this, but the Germans noted his use of the words “disengaged side” and understood what he meant. There was no wind or sea so there would be no lee or weather side to worry about. But there were likely to be other and more pressing considerations.

At 0658 they sighted the masts of a ship on the port quarter. Soon the upperworks and hull lifted above the horizon and by 0705 there was no longer any doubt. It was a cruiser, coming up from astern at high speed.

On the bridge of the
Northampton
the signals officer was making a report to the Captain.

“The Walrus says the ship has run up five hoists of about fifteen flags in all. The aircraft can’t read them at three miles and the ship continues to ignore the request to make her signal letters.”

“Thank you, Ransome. I expect she’s trying to brazen it out. Putting on the ‘I’m a stupid merchant ship and don’t understand your signals act.’ It’s a favourite raider technique.” Captain Gillies turned to the midshipman behind him. “Ask the navigating officer at what time we should sight her.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” The midshipman saluted, went to the bridge phone, spoke into it and came back with his report. “At approximately 0655 if the position given by the Walrus is correct, sir.”

“I expect it isn’t,” said the Captain who was a salt horse and mistrusted flying sailors, though he conceded their
usefulness
.

“Yeoman,” he said, “can you think what she’s up to with all those flag hoists?”

“Must have a message to pass, sir.” The yeoman-of-signals was not easily shaken.

The Captain had a great respect for his yeoman. The man abounded in common sense. “Yes, yeoman. But what message?”

The yeoman stroked his chin. “Sounds like delaying tactics, sir. There’s seamen on that bridge. They know hoists can’t be read that far, sir. Why don’t they use an Aldis, or W/T, or R/T?”

“That, yeoman, is exactly what I feel.”

Captain Gillies looked at his watch. It was 0642. He beckoned the midshipman. “Let Benshaw know I won’t be having my bath for some time, Higgins.”

Midshipman Higgins saluted, said “Aye, aye, sir,” and spoke to the bridge messenger, who doubled off to pass the word to the Captain’s steward.

The Captain spoke next to the officer-of-the-watch. “Radar picked up anything yet, Simmonds?” He knew it was an unnecessary question—the instant the radar operators obtained a contact they would report to the bridge—but it was force of habit; it helped to pass the time and it reminded the operators that the Captain relied on them for the first report of the ship ahead. They would see the blip on their screens long before the bridge lookouts sighted the masts.

While he waited on the bridge, searching the horizon every few minutes with his binoculars, Gillies was thinking of the Confidential Admiralty Fleet Order which had been issued to all H.M. ships after the loss of the cruiser
Sydney
in November, 1941. The British warship had sighted a merchantman two hundred miles off the Australian coast and had steamed towards it, repeatedly making the signal “N-N-J.” At about six miles range the
Sydney
again made the signal but this time in plain language; the merchant vessel then hoisted signal letters on the triatic stay in such a way that they were obscured and could not be read by the
Sydney
.

Eventually, when the
Sydney
had closed to within 1500 yards, the merchant ship had dropped her gun screens and opened fire at point blank range with four 15 cm. guns.

The first salvo had wrecked the
Sydney
’s
bridge, destroyed her aircraft, and a torpedo from the raider had put the cruiser’s forward turrets out of action.

The
Sydney
put her guns into local control and fought a bitter action with the raider at short range, eventually leaving the German ship on fire and sinking. The cruiser, heavily damaged and down by the bow, steamed slowly to the
south-east
and was never seen again.

Some three hundred survivors from the raider—which turned out to be the
Kormoran
—were picked up but there were none from the
Sydney
.

The Confidential Fleet Order issued as a result of this action enjoined commanding officers of H.M. ships to exercise the utmost care when interrogating suspect merchant ships and in particular to remain at long range and to manœuvre at high speed until identity had been established.

It was with these thoughts very much in the forefront of his mind that Captain Gillies heard the officer-of-the-watch report: “Radar contact bearing two-six-eight, forty thousand yards. Classified ‘ship,’ sir.”

The Captain immediately ordered action stations, and the alarm rattlers sounded throughout the cruiser. From every compartment men streamed to their stations and reports began to flow through to the bridge from the gunnery and torpedo directors, the gun turrets, the action information centre, damage control stations, and the plot. Speed was increased to thirty-two knots and the
Northampton
’s
stern settled deeper in the water, the spray under her forefoot rising high.

At 0656, the Captain was first to sight the masts of a ship almost directly ahead. Seven minutes later her upperworks were plainly visible. The
Northampton
altered course to port to bring the merchantman broader on the starboard bow and to ensure that the cruiser was up-sun from the stranger, thus making the warship a more difficult target.

At sixteen thousand yards, by which time the merchant ship was bearing six points on the cruiser’s starboard bow, the
North
ampton
,
using a fourteen-inch signal lamp, made “N-N-J” and repeated it in plain language.

This was done three times, but there was no reply from the merchant ship. The yeoman-of-signals struggled with his telescope but could make nothing of the various flag hoists the ship was flying.

At 0708, the
Northampton
fired two warning shots and shell
splashes were seen to port and starboard of the merchantman’s bows.

It was now possible to see the ship’s hull and superstructure clearly, and it was beyond all doubt that she was not only a German ship, but certainly either the
Köln
or the
Hagenfels
.
It was clear to Captain Gillies that whether she was the one or the other he had to sink her; a raider supply vessel was no more desirable afloat than a raider, but with the fate of the
Sydney
in mind prudence demanded that he should assume that this was the
Köln
.

After the two warning shots, the German ship was seen to slow down and begin to turn to port but she continued to ignore all signals from the cruiser. It was at this stage that the yeoman remarked to the Captain: “Those hoists could only be read by a ship a mile or so away on her beam. I think they’re a decoy, sir, to get us into that position.”

Captain Gillies agreed with the yeoman’s observation. He had himself already assumed that the German ship was turning to port to bring her guns and torpedo tubes to bear. With the
Northampton
still zigzagging at high speed, he gave the order to open fire.

The first salvo straddled the German ship and thereafter she was hit repeatedly. When it
was seen that her bridge and superstructure were on fire and that she had begun to settle by the bows, Captain Gillies ordered the cease fire. The fact that the German ship had not returned the cruiser’s fire suggested that it was the
Hagenfels
and not the
Köln
but, deciding to take no chances, he turned away from the sinking ship and left the scene at high speed.

Before she was out of sight, Captain Gillies had the
satisfaction
of seeing the German vessel list over to port and sink, but it was not possible at that range to see whether any boats had got away.

Soon afterwards the Walrus reported that a lifeboat and some rafts had left the ship and that flying low over them the observer had counted sixteen survivors.

Captain Gillies spoke afterwards of his shock on learning that so few men had survived out of a ship’s company which he estimated at not less than sixty if she were a supply vessel, and many times more if she were a raider. It was for this reason that he took the unusual step of ordering the Walrus to land on the water and interrogate the survivors. The sea was calm and no danger was involved. While this was being done, the
Northampton
,
mindful of U-boats, carried on to the eastward at high speed.

As the cruiser approached, Widmark got the Newt to make a final inquiry from the wireless cabin but when the answer came it disposed of their last hope: the emergency transmitter was not yet working, though Mike Kent hoped to have it going fairly soon.

“Fairly soon,” echoed Widmark hopelessly. That was likely to be too late. With his binoculars on the approaching ship he thought grimly of the course of events which, starting so promisingly, threatened now to end in disaster. The utterly unforeseen had occurred. Never in their most pessimistic moments had they assumed in their planning that they might be without means of communicating with a British warship with which they were in visual touch. They had been
incredibly
unlucky. The damage to the R/T in the fight with Moewe; the German steward’s sabotaging of the ship’s main W/T installation; the absence of an Aldis lamp; the sinking of the
Havana
City
and the consequent hue and cry which had brought the Walrus and the cruiser on to the scene and, finally, the refusal of the aircraft to close to a range from which she could read either the signal torch or the flag hoists.

The pressing question was, what would the cruiser do?

Would she come sufficiently close to read the
Hagenfels
’s signals?

Widmark, too, knew about the
Sydney-Kormoran
action; he, too, had read the Confidential Admiralty Fleet Order, and he had few illusions about what was likely to happen.

It was a macabre situation, standing there waiting, powerless to alter the course of events, yet hoping against hope that the worst would not happen and that somehow the flag hoists would be read.

Immediately after sighting the cruiser, Widmark had passed the word that it might be necessary to abandon ship but he could not yet indicate which side. Johan, with the help of the Newt and the Germans, had turned out lifeboats on either side and cut away the lashings from life-rafts so that they would float clear if the ship sank.

Thereafter, Johan went back to the women in the stern and the Germans gathered in front of number one hatch. Kuhn, the chief engineer, had come out of his drugged sleep, and Müller the steward was up and about with a bandaged head.

Wedel, still unconscious, was laid on a mattress under the break of the fo’c’sle, so that he could be carried to a boat or raft if necessary.

When the cruiser was about eight miles away a powerful signal lamp blinked from her bridge. It was the inevitable “N-N-J,” followed in plain language by the equally inevitable “Make your signal letters.” These signals were repeated several times. Widmark clenched his fists in angry frustration.

At 0708 they heard gunfire and shortly afterwards there were shell splashes to port and starboard of the
Hagenfels
’s bow, about two cables distant from the ship.

Widmark knew that the
Hagenfels
was being called on to stop, but he knew also that if he stopped on that course with the cruiser on his port quarter—and with no wind—the flag hoists would droop and it would be impossible for them to be read at any range.

For these reasons he ordered speed to be reduced to “slow” and course altered to port, so that the wind made by the movement of the ship would be sufficient to fly the flags, and so that the
Hagenfels
would be beam-on to the cruiser, thus making it possible for the hoists to be read if the warship closed the range. It was a desperate measure, but it was all he could do.

Less than two minutes after the turn to port began, he saw the bright flash of a salvo ripple along the cruiser’s side—it was the last thing he was to see for shortly afterwards he lost
consciousness as the shells exploded on the superstructure, destroying the bridge and blinding him.

During the next few minutes the
Hagenfels
was hit repeatedly and holed below the waterline in several places forward of the bridge; the funnel collapsed and a fire blazed amidships. In the wrecked wireless cabin, Mike Kent was dying—pinned down by wreckage, he was still conscious and through a mist of pain and delirium he knew that he had somehow failed though he could not remember in what way.

When the ship took on a list to port and began to sink slowly by the head, the shelling ceased. Down below, water was pouring into the engine-room and McFadden, unable to get a reply from the bridge, stopped the engines and went on deck, taking with him Hans le Roux and Fritz the greaser.

On the starboard side they found the German prisoners with Rohrbach, Mariotta and Di Brett sheltering under the awning deck. Above them there was the crackle of fire, smoke billowed and they were assailed by the acrid smell of burning paintwork. Cleo and Johan were nowhere to be seen.
Rohrbach
, dazed by the explosion on the bridge and partially blinded, thought they had gone to look for the others. The only prisoner missing was von Falkenhausen. Lindemann said he had been with them after the firing had ceased, but had since disappeared.

McFadden told Hans and the greaser to take the Germans round to the port side to get a lifeboat ready for lowering. After a moment of indecision, he went in search of the rest of the party, making for what was left of the bridge. Amid the smoking wreckage there he saw the remains of the port bridge ladder. Pulling himself up on to the deck outside the
chart-house
he came upon the body of the Newt. The Englishman lay on his back, spread-eagled, a small smile on his lips as if he were quietly amused at something. Inside the wrecked wheel-house McFadden found the others. Cleo was sitting on the deck near the wheel, with Widmark’s head in her lap. There was an uneven wound across his forehead and his eyes were
covered with blood, the face still black with stove-polish. McFadden heard him groan and Cleo, ashen and dry-eyed, stared at Johan. “He’s dying,” she said unsteadily.

McFadden saw that there was more than the face wound: Widmark’s trousers were ripped about the thigh where torn flesh showed from a jagged wound, the blood pumping out, the pool on the deck steadily widening.

“Come on,” the Scot spoke roughly, checking his emotion. “Fire’s coming this way. Boat on the port side’s ready for lowering. We won’t be afloat much longer.”

Johan stooped and gathered Widmark in his arms.
McFadden
shook his head. “It’s no good, laddie.”

“I’m not leaving him,” the big man said. He moved off through the wreckage towards the starboard bridge ladder, staggering under the weight of his burden. They followed him down to the boat-deck and round to the lifeboat on the port side. With the help of his brother, Johan laid Widmark in the sternsheets. Then he gave Cleo a grubby handkerchief and told her to make a ball of it and try to plug the thigh wound. One of the German sailors came back and reported that he could not find the Freiherr. Hester asked Johan about Mike Kent. He looked away, shaking his head. “He’s had it,” he said gruffly, and the tears ran down her cheeks.

The bows were deeper in the sea and the list to port was increasing. There was the sound of water rushing into the foremost holds, and the sharp hiss of escaping air.

Di Brett was pale. Mariotta, still thick-headed from the drugs, looked round owlishly, and Karl Wedel, his life trickling away, lay in the bows of the lifeboat where the prisoners had put him.

Johan ordered them into the boat. The women went first: Di Brett, Cleo and Hester. Then the Germans: Müller, Schäffer, Fritz the greaser, Heuser and Francke, Kuhn and Lindemann. After them Rohrbach, McFadden and Johan. The German bosun, Kolbe, and Hans le Roux stayed on the boat-deck to man the falls. Johan gave the order to lower
away. The falls squeaked through the running blocks and the lifeboat went down slowly, the list keeping it clear of the side. When it touched the water the falls were cast off and Hans and Kolbe slid down into the boat.

Paul Müller, his pale face agitated under his bandaged head, said: “What about the Freiherr?”

Lindemann touched his arm. “Be quiet, Müller,” he spoke gently.

“But we can’t leave him behind,” the steward pleaded.

Di Brett’s eyes were unnaturally bright. “Why not?” she said. “He’s probably dead, anyway.”

On Johan’s orders they bore off and rowed away from the
Hagenfels
.
When they had gone about a hundred yards, they rested on their oars and sat watching her. Clouds of black smoke climbed into the air, twisting and turning, and fire glowed through the portholes in the deck-house amidships. Slowly at first, but with increasing speed, the ship listed over to port and with a vast hissing and sucking began to slide, bows first, beneath the sea. The stern remained, perched at a curious angle, as if unwilling to make the final plunge; then it, too, had gone and where the ship had been there was turbulent water and great bubbles came from the vortex and blew obscenely into the heat of the day. Two life-rafts floated clear, and for some time afterwards gratings and other pieces of wreckage came to the surface. Diesel fuel, dark and oleaginous, formed in pools and spread, its pungent odour hanging in the air.

The survivors were silent, all feelings of race, of friend and enemy, put aside as they watched the ship go. Absorbed in this, they scarcely noticed the aircraft flying low over them, so low that Johan saw the face of the pilot through the perspex windshield. Twice the Walrus circled before it landed on the sea and taxied towards them.

Cleo was sitting in the sternsheets with Widmark’s head in her lap. Her lace handkerchief was over his eyes. It had been white, but now it shone carmine and limpid, glistening in the
sun like a jewel. She bent her head over his as if she were listening.

Hope rose in Johan. “How is he?”

Cleo shook her head. “He died—a few minutes ago.” Her voice was flat, toneless. “He tried to say something—then he just died.”

The Walrus was close to them now. The engine stopped. The roof over the cockpit slid back and two heads appeared. One of the men put a small megaphone to his lips. “Any of you speak English?”

There was a pause. Johan stood up in the sternsheets. His lungs were as powerful as the rest of him and he didn’t need a megaphone. “Yes!” he shouted, his deep voice rolling across the water. “We do.” He hesitated. “I suppose you silly bastards know you’ve sunk a British prize and——”

There was a lot more he wanted to say, but he shook his head and stopped.

After all, he thought, what’s the use?

THE END

Oc
tober
,
1965