What coursework essays are you referring to? 'The Battle of the Atlantic' I hope...if not, that's what you should be doing (at the highest level) :know: .
This story is absolutely fantastic...desperate for the next installment :up: :rock:

Once again, amazing work. I can see some chemistry brewing between Hechler and Franke ;).

Neither of the Beaufighters had any chance of survival. Despite their high speed and manoeuvrability, each pilot must have known that they couldn’t live through the murderous barrage of shells and cannon-fire. They were screaming past the outer destroyer pickets now, engines howling as they levelled out of their dive low against the water. One of them seemed to stagger as smoke poured from the left engine as cannon-fire ripped through the fuselage. Hechler started at the weaving silhouette as pieces flew from the plane and splashed into the surging swell. Seconds later it exploded in a vivid fireball which slowly tumbled into the sea before cart-wheeling across the surface. But the other plane was dodging the flak, and even as Hechler watched the gleaming torpedo dropped from the rack under the fuselage, and dropped into the sea with a fine feather of spray jumping up as it moved below the surface.

The plane continued towards them as everything the ships had poured into it. Perhaps the pilot and crew were already dead, Hechler thought to himself. The Beaufighter suddenly rolled over and dived into the sea with a dull explosion.

“Torpedo running to port!”

“Hard a-port!”

At thirty knots the cruiser seemed to lean right over on her beam as men who weren’t quick enough to grab a handhold tumbled down the deck. Hechler shouted above the din, “Steady. Hold her!” He could see the Lübeck behind them surging ahead to take the lead, and Hechler could imagine the other captain laughing at the Prinz Luitpold’s undignified lurching from the line. Looking ahead, Hechler thought he could see the long finger of foam as the torpedo streaked towards the port bow. He had never expected to be in this position. Normally he was at the other end, fixing the ships in his crosshairs. Suddenly his mind jumped back to his first patrol, when he had hit the HMS Glasgow. He wondered if this was the last thing her captain had seen as his torpedo had slammed into the armoured hull.

The ship was steadying up after her mad turn, and Froebe croaked from his position near the compass repeater, “Steady on two-eight-zero, sir!” Hechler saw the torpedo moving further down the hull, suddenly relieved that the torpedo would miss. He watched as the white streak passed down the starboard side of the hull, before disappearing behind them. Safe.

He said, “Bring her back on course.” From the corner of his eye he could see the Lübeck’s guns suddenly open fire, and moments later the flash-flash on the horizon that marked the fall of the shot. Clausen’s voice echoed over the intercom as he plotted their course from the conning-tower. “On course, sir. Zero-two-two.” He sounded calm, even disinterested, even though Hechler knew his heart must be breaking to see the merchantmen destroyed in such a clinical way.

Hechler snatched up the gunnery handset. “This is the Captain. I’m about to turn to starboard. Bring the after turrets to bear on the enemy!” They would have a better chance with all four turrets in action. He looked across the bridge. “Alter course! Steer zero-seven-zero.”

He raised the glasses and looked across the sea, the ships in the convoy suddenly clear to see. They were much closer now, and Hechler winced as the great guns fired once more. Kroll was firing each turret one after the other, so the ship seemed to be constantly firing, the din never-ending.

Heyse gasped suddenly, “The Admiral, sir!”

Leitner strode across the bridge, his silk scarf no longer white, but a murky grey. He snapped, “Can’t see a damned thing from up there. Too much bloody smoke!” He gritted his teeth as the two after turrets fired again, the shell screaming off towards the smoke stacks on the horizon.

Hechler looked across to Leitner and asked, “Can I signal Lübeck to take station astern again?” He grimaced as the guns thundered out again, but Hechler was glad for Kroll’s efficient training now.

The intercom burst into life, “Straddling! Two hits!”

Leitner looked across at him. “No, Dieter, let him have his fun. We will keep the flagship astern so as to better direct the battle.”

He looked nervous, and Hechler could hardly believe his ears. “But sir, we are the stronger ship, we must take the lead to protect Lübeck from heavy surface escorts!” A cold feeling settled in his stomach as realisation hit him. For all his strutting and enthusiastic rhetoric, he was afraid of battle. Hechler turned away as Leitner’s voice broke over him.

“Captain! Obey your orders.”

Hechler turned away, still angry with Leinter. He looked across the horizon towards the convoy. Flash-flash. Flash-flash. There was a blink of gunfire, masked by the mist near the surface, and a few moments later the shells burst in waterspouts around the Lübeck.

Leitner called gleefully, “Not even a straddle!”

“Gunnery officer, sir.” Ahlmann was holding a telephone towards Hechler, and he turned away from the rail and held it to his ear.

Kroll said between explosions, “We’ve sunk a wing escort and have hit two merchantmen as well. One ship is leaving the convoy, range closing. By her size and speed she must be a cruiser.”

Hechler turned and stared at the Lübeck, stern on to them, her turrets all trained round to bear on the enemy. Where his own ship should be. The bridge quivered under his feet as the guns fired another salvo.

“Enemy in sight, sir! Bearing Red four-five!” Hechler lifted his glasses again and saw the dull silhouette as she broke from the mist, and was then wreathed in smoke as she fired again. Hechler did not lower the glasses, but said, “Tell the Gunnery Officer to concentrate on the enemy cruiser.” The turrets fired instantly, but it was too soon to see the result. He heard the gunnery intercom mutter, “Short.” Then Kroll’s voice. “Four hundred metre bracket!” A pause. “Fire!”

“Straddling!”
Leitner had clasped his hands together, an excited expression on his face. “Signal Lübeck to go for the convoy. We’ll take care of the cruiser!”

“Two hits!” The rest was drowned out by a violent explosion and Hechler quickly spun round to look at the Lübeck. Smoke and flame was pouring upwards from under the bridge where the shell had hit, but the Lübeck was already changing course, her forward guns firing on the convoy. Hechler looked at the British cruiser. She had been hit hard as well, and Hechler could see smoke and flames on her decks, but there was no let up in her rate of fire or accuracy.

The next salvo straddled the Lübeck and a boatswain’s mate watched in disbelief as her bow wave dwindled as another two shells exploded on top of her turrets.

Kroll announced, “Cruiser is disengaging, sir. The convoy is scattering too.”

Hechler looked again, and the enemy cruiser was bearing away as two destroyers came to escort her away from the battle. She had been outgunned from the start, but it only took a lucky shell, and she could have easily saved the convoy had circumstances been different.

“Shift target! Open fire!”

One by one the Prinz Luitpold picked off the merchantmen – they had no chance of survival. Only when smoke stretched across the horizon like a thick blanket did Hechler speak again. “Cease firing.” He glanced at the conning-tower, knowing Clausen would be feeling the loss of the merchantmen, the disgust at how easy it had been. There would be others in his crew feeling the same way, angry at the jubilant cries of their comrades. Hechler turned as Clausen, the Navigation Officer, emerged at the bridge after climbing down from the conning-tower. He waited patiently for Hechler to see him.

Froebe called suddenly, “Signal from Lübeck. Unable to make more than four knots. Request assistance.”

Hechler watched his admiral. That must have cost the cruiser’s captain a lot, he thought. Leitner swung round, looking directly at Hechler. “Signal the senior officer of the destroyers to escort Lübeck back to Norway.” He watched the lamp blinking away as the signalman passed the message across, his face white in the aftermath of the battle.

Hechler walked quickly across the bridge to Leitner, and spoke in hushed tones. “Sir, it is my opinion that we should escort Lübeck back to base. The British will be out for blood…”

“From Lübeck, sir. I require a tow.”

Hechler continued. “You see, sir. Even if the destroyers can tow her back, they cannot escape the British forces.”

Leitner turned away impatiently. “Has the destroyer leader acknowledged?”

“Acknowledged, sir.”

He turned back towards Hechler. “Very well. Discontinue the action, Captain. Phase Two now!”

He clapped his arms behind his back and walked away to the rail, staring impassively across the sea.

“Fall out action stations.” Hechler picked up the handset. “Viktor? This is the Captain. We have disengaged, so come up to the bridge, will you?”

Clausen was already muttering orders at the back of the bridge, and Hechler watched as the long bow swung round, heading south west into the Norwegian Sea.

Clausen spoke, his voice carrying from the back of the bridge. “On new course, sir. Revolutions set for twenty knots.”

Hechler nodded at him, and then said. “In ten minutes I’ll join you in the chart room.”

Clausen nodded, his beard heavy in his chest. He knew what Hechler had meant. In ten minutes, Lübeck and the others would be too far astern to matter. Discarded and left to the gathering wolves. He watched Hechler’s grave expression and din’t know whether to pity him or thank God he was in command. He had seen one of the merchantmen die, a large one, high out of the water. In ballast. That wonderful feeling. Going home. Clausen decided to make a sketch of the unknown victim. For the first time in his life he was suddenly afraid as the full realisation of what they were about to do hit him.

************************************************** *****************

By the time evening closed in, the visibility had dropped right down, and a low mist clung to the water as a fine drizzle covered the decks, making them gleam and shimmer like glass. Every turn of the large triple screws carried them further from land, from safety. All the signs of the brief convoy battle had been cleared away; the Prinz Luitpold had not been hit in the short engagement, but ammunition racks needed to be restocked, magazines refilled from the stores in the very depths of the ship. Hechler contemplated that this job would have been easier for his men had Leitner not insisted on keeping his cases of documents and boxes in one of the secure storage compartments that would normally store ammunition where it could be easily reached.

There were other matters to take care of as well. The ship had been making thirty knots when the Beaufighter had dropped the torpedo, and the Prinz Luitpold had made the hard turn. The turn had caused numerous injuries amongst the crew. Two men in the boiler room had been scalded as they were thrown from their feet. Several others had been thrown from ladders or across compartments. Erika Franke had been one of the latter, and sustained a bad strain to her wrist. The doctor, Stroheim had not reported to Hechler in person, as was the custom, but instead submitted a report, and Hechler still had to make up his mind whether it was merely arrogance, or that the matter had something to do with Inger.

Hechler now stood on the bridge, feet spaced wide apart as he felt the steady vibration, the confident power of the great engines. They had been travelling at thirty knot when they had made the turn, and they could reach a maximum speed of thirty five knots, enough to outpace even a destroyer, yet even at the sedate speed of twenty knots, the deck quivered and vibrated as if the cruiser was alive. Every radio message and intercepted signal was being recorded by Clausen’s team high in the conning-tower, and the radar constantly searched the waters around them. It had proven its worth in the convoy battle, and in addition to their attack, and pack of U-boats had forced home an attack on the eastbound convoy, and kept the heavy surface escorts otherwise engaged. In addition to Willentrop’s cunning deception with the storeships in the fjord, there was a high chance that the Prinz could break into the Atlantic before the Brits discovers their error.

Thinking of the convoy attack brought Hechler’s thoughts back to the Lübeck, and Hechler thought she stood little chance of reaching Norway where she could carry out repairs. Maybe she had already been caught by the vengeful patrols? He had made a further point to the admiral about leaving the Lübeck, but there was no point in pressing the argument. It was rumoured that an open row between the captain of the Bismarck and his admiral had sealed their fate just as much as enemy gunnery. He was pleased of the radar presence. It meant he could keep the crew on a normal watch so that they could at least get four hours of interrupted sleep. To lie down, even for a few moments made all the difference.

Suhren was standing across the bridge, and Hechler made his way over towards him, then stood next to him as they watched the undulating swell occasionally break over the forecastle. “We seem to be clear, Viktor.” He looked at the admiral’s flag curling at the masthead. “We will stand to action-stations through the night. I don’t want to be surprised tonight.”

“Do you still intend to pass south of Iceland, sir?”

“Yes. There is little point in passing through the Denmark Strait unless we’re challenged – there is far too much daylight at this time of the year, and much more air patrols. By passing between Iceland and the Faeroes, we’ll have 150 miles on either beam to play with.”

Suhren seemed to accept it. It was right for him to question it, Hechler thought. If anything happened to him, then Suhren would be expected to immediately assume command. With all luck they would pass through into the Atlantic with no trouble, and once at large, they would rendezvous with Rahn to brief him further, then head for the other rendezvous with a Milch-cow supply sub. These were submarines specially manufactured to spend weeks at sea, carrying nothing but stores, fuel and torpedoes to restock their smaller front line consorts. It meant that the U-boats could spend much longer on patrol. Nobody commented on what this did to the U-boat crews’ morale. Now the Prinz Luitpold would restock from her own dedicated supply subs, as would Rahn’s wolfpack. It was a daring scheme, like nothing ever undertaken, and Hechler smiled to himself. It was exactly the kind of thing Nelson would have done. The thin balance ever present, just like the Beaufighter pilots. Death or glory.

Hechler said suddenly, “I was sorry to hear about your wife, Viktor.”

Suhren faced him, his voice lowered. “The admiral?”

Hechler nodded. “He had to tell me, Viktor. Even if he had not been aboard, I would have been told. Don’t let it weigh too heavily on your mind, eh. We will need all of our strengths now.”

Suhren’s face paled. “It makes no difference to my ability! None whatsoever. I would be…”

Hechler interrupted him with a clap on the arm. “I’m going to the sickbay whilst it is quiet. Shake the load off your back, Viktor. I’m concerned for you, not your bloody ability!”

Suhren was still staring at him as he climbed down the ladder at the back of the bridge.

It felt strange to Hechler, being off the bridge whilst the ship was at sea. Normally he’d be on the bridge all the time except for when he was sleeping in the small sea-cabin behind the bridge. Even in U-boats he had been only a few seconds from the ladder up to the bridge. It felt very strange, down here, unable to see the sea, sounds muted by inches of armour plating and thick steel bracing. The only indication of movement was the steady vibration through the steel floor plates.

He walked into the sickbay, the bright white walls contrasting from the grey skies he had left on the bridge. There were two medical attendants passing between the injured, and one was placing some bottles back on a shelf. There was a bucket of broken glass in the corner as well, and Hechler noticed that the violent turn had even left its mark here. Most of the men were dozing in their cots, but one tried to sit to attention when he saw the captain enter, straining to get his bandaged arm into a salute. Hechler removed his cap and made a grin. “Easy there, rest while you can, eh?”

Then he turned, and spotted the doctor staring at him from his office. Hechler smiled and walked over. Karl-Heinz Stroheim was not what he expected. He was a large man, and his gold rimmed spectacles looked small on his chubby face. He watched Hechler warily as the captain entered his small office and closed the door.

“I have dealt with the casualties, Captain.”

“Hmm. Thought we should meet,” he grinned again, “So, Mohammed and the Mountain, you see?”

“I’m honoured, sir.”

“Yes, but don’t make a habit of it. I expect a report in person next time.” He changed tack suddenly. “A different appointment to your last, isn’t it?”

The man nodded, his chins quivering. “Yes, the barracks at Wilhelmshaven. Before that, well, you know about that.”

“You were in trouble.”

Stroheim grimaced, and then looked away. “Yes, but I was too valuable to be thrown out. They put me in uniform. I’m just grateful it was blue rather than field grey.”

“No shame in that.” He asked casually, “Abortions, was it?”

Stroheim’s jaw dropped and his eyes went wide. “How did you know!”

“I didn’t. A lucky guess.” He smiled gravely. “I’m told you know my wife.”

“Yes…”

“No matter, we’ll talk again, I’m sure.” He stood up, glancing around the small office, noticing the gramophone and records, the pictures and homely items. “Don’t make this place too much like home. Mix with the others – it’s not good to be cut off.”

“Like you, do you mean, Captain?”

Hechler walked out the door. “I don’t need a consultation right now, thank you!”

He paused by the door. “Take good care of my men, Stroheim.”

He turned and stepped away quickly, stopping rapidly as he almost walked into Erika Franke. Her left arm was bandaged in a sling, and she smiled at him. “Tell me next time you change direction, Captain. That way I can keep well clear.”

He looked at her in concern. “I was sorry to hear of your injury. May I escort you to your quarters?”

It was the first time he had really seen her laugh, and then she made a mock scowl. “So correct, so proper, Captain!” Then she relented at the expression on Hechler’s face. “I should like the company. I find the ladders difficult at the moment.”

Hechler looked down at her. She only just reached his shoulders, but he hadn’t noticed before. He had hoped to see her; the doctor had been an excuse. They walked along the passageway, some parts in deep shadow.

“I should like to visit the bridge again. I need the air, the view. I hate being trapped below here.”

“Any time.” He watched her out of the corner of his eye as their feet made sharp noises on the deck plating. “It is good to see a pretty face amongst all us ugly men.”

He stopped as a messenger ran up to them and skidded to a halt. “There is a message from the bridge for you, sir.”

Hechler walked briskly over to a handset mounted on the wall as the girl followed him over. The messenger had already disappeared, almost as fast as he had arrived. He heard Suhren’s voice in hushed tones, and the muted sound of the sea and wind beyond him. “The Admiral has had a signal, sir. Lübeck was sunk.”

Hechler replaced the handset very slowly, his eyes suddenly grave.

She was watching him, her eyes concerned. “May I ask, Captain?”

He looked at her, his eyes empty, his expression betraying nothing. “Lübeck’s gone. She was sunk a few minutes ago.” He could see it as if it had happened right here. The ship, alone, limping back towards Norway. The flashes on the horizon and then the final, devastating salvos that landed around her.

She said softly, “You didn’t want to leave her, did you?” She continued as she saw the question in his bright eyes. “I was told. Everybody knew. They’re very fond of their young captain.”

He turned away, speaking softly now. “Yes. I wanted to stay with her. Now she’s gone.” He thought of the burning convoy, the Brits out for blood. “It must not have been in vain.” He walked briskly down the passageway, not seeing the girl watching him walk away, nor the expression on her face.

It must not have been in vain.


************************************************** *************

Enjoy! Next time Hechler will probably meet some old friends :p

Hechler shifted on the steel chair and pushed his back further into the seatback. If he sat up, he could see all the way along the foredeck, wet and glistening in the damp air as if the ship had been hit by a rainsquall, but every now and then the high bows dipped into the seas and massive welters of spray crashed over the long forecastle. It was afternoon, and the sky was covered by long, dark clouds. He heard Clausen’s deep tones behind him as he passed more helm orders forward, checking and rechecking the course for the rendezvous.

The ship’s motion was uncomfortable as she was throttled down in the large seas, and Hechler noticed a young sailor looking distinctly green. It reminded him of his U-boat days, and the wild motion the submarines took up when in heavy seas. The Prinz Luitpold was moving slowly through the seas, in mid-Atlantic, waiting for Rahn’s U-32 to appear and join with the cruiser. Leitner was to brief the two commanding officers on the tactics required for the daring convoy attacks. U-32 would dive and disappear below the waves whilst Rahn was aboard, and search around its larger consort to act as a further warning against detection. Hechler shrugged his shoulders deeper into his thick watchcoat to keep the damp air away.

At the moment, he didn’t look like a typical captain, his old fisherman’s sweater showing beneath his uniform jacket, and the jacket itself was an older one, frayed at the edges. It was a drawback to his U-boat days, but Hechler preferred it that way, and enjoyed the warm comfort his old sweater gave him. It also had another, not totally unwanted effect of irritating Leitner, who always seemed to be impeccably dressed; his cap at a rakish angle on his head.

Hechler looked up over the screen as he saw the admiral appear from behind Turret Anton, head high despite the spray, his face flushed and youthful. It was no surprise to Hechler to see Leitner walking next to Oberletnant Bauer, the signals and communications officer. He was also the political officer and had taken numerous walks with the youthful admiral, and Hechler wondered what they discussed. He was willing to wager a large amount of money that Suhren and the Prinz’s captain were probably one of the more frequent topics of discussion. Hechler was surprised to find that he didn’t care.

Clausen called, “New course, sir. Two-one-five.”

Hechler looked across the bridge as the heavy cruiser slowly turned he bows across the seas, nosing into the waves now, and he grinned as he saw the two figures on the foredeck move swiftly out of the way of a wave that had broken over the foredeck. If they saw anything now, they would have to forego the rendezvous, and proceed towards the next one. Hechler wasn’t too concerned, for there were frequent meetings planned with the Milch Cows. Leitner intended to keep the Prinz Luitpold’s tanks topped up as much as possible.

It had been four days since the cruiser had faded into the mist after leaving the Lübeck to her fate, and Hechler had seen the girl a few times since then, but she had kept below decks for the most part, and Hechler wondered if the heavy seas had made her uncomfortable moving around with her injured wrist. The Prinz Luitpold had covered almost two thousand miles in that time, and was now about a thousand miles north of the Azores. The rest of the wolfpack were gathered further south, somewhere between the Canary Islands and the Cape Verde islands.

He heard Suhren’s footsteps on the gratings and shifted around to look at him.

“All well, Viktor?” Things were still strained between them, and had been since Hechler had talked to Suhren about his wife. Suhren was almost never seen now without a surly, moody expression on his face, and Hechler guessed that he had been brooding a lot. Not the best mindset when they were about to head into battle. Hechler thought about the impending rendezvous, and thought again of how different Suhren was from Rahn, the only two officers who had served as his second-in-command. Hechler felt he had grown to know Suhren, but that had all changed since his leave. Suhren was much more withdrawn now, although it had done little to reduce his biting comments, and his endless search for efficiency.

Apart from a grunted ‘yes’, Suhren remained silent on the bridge. Hechler glanced at his watch. The rendezvous was any minute now, and he looked out to port at the waves. They were not too large, but would make it difficult for Rahn to climb aboard. The camera team were already assembling on the side, ready to shoot some footage of the U-boat meeting with the powerful cruiser in the middle of the Atlantic.

“U-boat on the port beam, sir!”

The lookout had spotted her first, and Hechler held the heavy glasses to his eyes as he saw the dull, battered conning-tower emerging from the sea, water streaming off her deck as she headed closer to the larger warship. Hechler could see the large white numbers, ‘32’ on the side of the tower, and then his eyes widened as he saw the emblem on the side of the tower. It was a U-boat commander, looking exactly like Hechler, with a telescope held to his eye facing directly away from a large merchant that was steaming behind him. The officer had a speech bubble from his mouth, and as the submarine drew closer and her motion eased as she passed under the lee of the cruiser, Hechler could read the words, and couldn’t suppress a chuckle. Hechler’s image on the conning tower was saying, ‘I see no ships!’

Hechler swiftly moved off the bridge and down onto the upper deck as he moved aft towards the accommodation ladder, already being lowered for Rahn to climb aboard. In the lee of the cruiser, the seas were much calmer, and the U-boat was moving easily towards the ladder. Hechler grinned as he thought of Rahn’s tribute to U-32’s last commander, his reputation as Dieter ‘Blindman’ Hechler and the famous words of his idol, Vice-Admiral Lord Nelson. A side party of seamen were already assembling, young Heyse drilling them into line as Hechler stood in front of them, ready to welcome his friend aboard. Leitner was already hurrying forward, Bauer at his heels as they waited for the young U-boat officer. Out of the corner of his eye, Hechler spotted Erika Franke standing on the deck above, looking down at the welcome party from over the rail.

Hechler turned and smiled at her before stepping forward as he saw the ladder jerk as the U-boat latched on. The ladder trembled as Rahn started climbing up, still unseen. The peals and trills of the side-party began as his white cap emerged level with the deck. He stepped aboard and saluted crisply as Leitner stepped forward. The admiral returned the salute before shaking Rahn’s hand. Hechler stood just behind the Leitner, and as Leitner moved away, they saluted each other, their faces a mask of formality, before Hechler grinned and embraced him.

“It’s good to have you with us, Dietrich,” He murmured as he stepped away. “And the new tower emblem, absolutely brilliant Dietrich! It was Rehburg, right?”

Rahn grinned at him and nodded, before turning and watching his command slip below the waves. The Prinz Luitpold would be travelling too fast for the submarine to keep pace on the surface, so U-32 under the capable hands of Rahn’s second-in-command would take the sub to the next rendezvous in five hours time.

As Hechler turned around, he noticed the side party moving away as the deck trembled afresh as Clausen and Suhren got her under way again. Leitner had disappeared, but Hechler knew that he had only gone to prepare his briefing for the two commanding officers. He looked up and noticed she was still standing next to the rail, a curious expression on her face. Hechler smiled at her before he clapped Rahn on the shoulder as they headed for the admiral’s large cabin.

************************************************** *****************

“Please be seated, gentlemen.” Leitner beamed at them from behind the large desk in his spacious quarters. Hechler sat in the comfortable chair, aware of Rahn doing the same to the left of him. “Korvettenkapitän Rahn, it is a pleasure to have you with us.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Leitner sat back in the heavy chair before reaching under his desk to reveal a large chart of the Atlantic. It was covered with pencil marks, arrows and scribbled notes in the margins. Hechler leaned forward a little, his interest peaked.

Leitner was speaking again. “It has been confirmed that the major convoy of enemy troops is going ahead.” He pointed out the position on the chart. “All the way around Good Hope and then up the Atlantic to Gibraltar, where they will be met by heavy air cover.” He paused again, his eyes gleaming. Hechler reflected that he had always been like this, gleeful at knowing something others didn’t. “However, as well as an expansive ASW escort cover, there are a few large surface escorts sailing with the convoy. Latest intelligence reports that there is at least one battleship, and several cruisers. Odds far to steep, even for a ship as powerful as this.”

Hechler imagined it in his mind, the strong, fast convoy with packed troopships and merchants full with tanks and other military equipment, then the heavy surface escort. Even the Prinz Luitpold couldn’t take on a battleship. He thought again of the Tirpitz, holed up in a Norwegian fjord whilst her fuel had been earmarked for tanks on the Russian front. If she had been here with the Prinz, they could have taken any convoy, no matter what the odds. He was drawn from his thoughts as Leitner began to speak again.

“It never ceases to amaze me – if the British have one weakness it is their overriding interest in protecting men rather than materials. They never seem to realize that without materials of war, men will be killed more surely than in a convoy battle. We will prove how futile their sense of honour is.” He pointed to the Indian Ocean. “Three days ago, one of our long-range U-boats enroute for Japan spotted a fast convoy of tankers with a heavy ASW escort heading for the Cape of Good Hope. We all know where it is headed, eh?” He looked across at both of them, his expression suddenly sorrowful. “Unfortunately, the intelligence report the U-boat commander sent cost him dearly. He managed to get a signal off estimating at least 20 large tankers, but he must have been discovered, and there has been no further contact with the U-boat.”
His eyes were gleaming again, his features excited, as he stood and leaned forward. “Except for any unforeseen factor there would be little chance of surprise. As we speak, a careful campaign is ahead to leak radio reports to the effect that The Prinz Luitpold is headed for the Caribbean. It is hoped that this will allow us a better chance against the convoy. Even the Allies seemed to grasp the fact that this convoy is absolutely vital, yet seem to place their trust in speed rather than brute force. My information…” He let his gaze rest briefly on Hecher, “is that the enemy has no idea where we are at present, nor how we aim to access fuel. They definitely have no idea that we are working in conjunction with our brave wolfpack.” He nodded slowly. “Planning, gentlemen. It far outpaces sentiment and outdated strategy.” He picked up a long wooden pointer and rested it on a dot in the middle of the Atlantic. “Ascension Island, gentlemen. One of the Allies’ strongholds in this region.” He looked up at them as the pointer slowly moved south. “We shall travel a further two thousand miles south, out of the range of most Allied aircraft. We will fuel at a couple of rendezvous on the way, and the wolfpack will also fuel at the pre-arranged points. We will alter out final rendezvous once greater intelligence tells us the course of the convoy. It is highly possible that the convoy will pick up a heavy surface escort at Cape Town, but they will be surprised, eh?”

Leitner straightened up and walked across the cabin, pacing steadily over the plush carpet. He turned and faced them, his face subdued, his voice calm and quiet again. “Then there is the other matter of our mission, one that only the Führer and Willentrop know of. Gentlemen, it is with a heavy heart that I have to break this news to you. The Reich is fighting for its life. We are hard pressed on two fronts, the very thing we strove to avoid. Our U-boats are suffering catastrophic losses, and our other Naval vessels scared of their own shadows. This ship, the Prinz Luitpold, is the only remaining major unit in the Kriegsmarine capable of inflicting damage on the enemy, yet even we cannot hope to change the course of the battle.”

Rahn looked across at Hechler, noting that his friend was outwardly calm, his features composed, yet his eyes told a different story. It was hard to pinpoint exactly what his expression was. There certainly wasn’t any sorrow for the Fatherland, he thought. Rahn felt like a traitor as he silently thanked God that the Allies would reach Eva before the Russians. He dragged his attention back to Leitner as the admiral began to speak again.

“We are entrusted with a vital mission.” He walked briskly over to the map again. The pointer was resting on the River Plate. “After the convoy battle, you are to take your ship to Buenos Aires where we will meet with the German consulate to arrange the extradition of senior Party officials from Germany. They will arrive by submarine, but we are to set up procedures and facilities in Argentina to quickly change the identities of our politicians.” He looked at them. “That is all gentlemen.”

Hechler followed Rahn out of the cabin, his thoughts unraveling before him. He heard Rahn mention something about taking a walk around the upper deck, and made a brief reply before walking briskly down the passageway, his feet pounding rapidly over the steel plates. So, not a brave end for the Prinz Luitpold, but yet another bolt-hole, he thought. He swore savagely, wondering how the German High Command could be so willing to discard the heavy cruiser to the same fate as the Graf Spee. He was so consumed by his thoughts that he never saw the girl staring at him as he walked briskly past her, her eyes wide in concern.

************************************************** *****************

Rahn walked slowly around the upper deck, savouring the exercise denied him in the submarine. He thought again of Hechler, worried for his friend. If the attack on the tanker convoy worked, the British would be out for their blood. The Prinz Luitpold would be hunted down, and Rahn couldn’t imagine Hechler running for a bolt-hole. What was the phrase he always quoted from Nelson? “The boldest measures are always the safest” or something like that. He shook his head and grinned. Imagine if the High Command found out that Hechler’s idol was a British Admiral.

Rahn thought of his role in the ‘grand mission’ as he had come to call it. The plan was certainly daring, and Rahn was sure that his U-boats could rout the convoy if the cruiser could take out the destroyers. The boats had plenty of fuel, although Rahn’s U-32 would be hard pushed to make the rendezvous on time, he was sure they would make it. He looked up as someone touched his arm. It was the flier, he struggled for her name. Erika Franke, wasn’t it?

She spoke in a quiet tone. “May I walk with you?”

Rahn looked down at her, containing his sudden surprise. “Certainly. I would enjoy the company.”

The walked in comfortable silence before Rahn looked over at her. “How are you finding the navy? I have heard of your exploits in the air, but I didn’t realise you were serving on one of our warships.”

She laughed then, and a nearby sailor stared at them as they walked by. “Willentrop’s orders. You are just like the Captain! He asked me almost the exact same thing only a few days ago.” She looked across at him, her eyes inquisitive. “You are very close to him, aren’t you?”

“Yes. I was his second-in-command in U-32 for just over a year, and we grew very close.” Rahn watched her carefully out of the corner of his eye.

“I saw how he greeted you as you came aboard. He doesn’t tend to show too much emotion.” She looked at him directly. “He is different to what I expected.”

Rahn noted her expression. So that was it. He thought of Hechler as he remembered him most, on the open bridge of U-32, his hair blowing wildly and his tall, powerful frame ignoring the frequent bursts of spray that had crashed over the tower. Then his compassion towards every last member of his crew, a kind word here and there, a reassuring glance. No wonder she was so interested. He thought of a suitable reply. “An enigma perhaps?”

She smiled at him. “You are leading me.” She added, “He seems to care so much about people. How can he do his work?”

Rahn nodded slowly, his expression controlled. “Yes, in that way he is unlike any man I have ever known. Even in the midst of a depthcharge attack, he would ask a sailor how his family were doing, if his son was in school yet. He was even compassionate towards our old Chief Engineer who had pulled a gun on Hechler when we were being depthcharged. He had cracked under the pressure, and almost killed Hechler, yet he was still cut up when the SS took Krystoflak away. It never ceases to amaze me.”

She smiled again. “When I first came aboard I thought he was so dull, uptight. Another political creature. I never knew how carefully he kept his guard up.”

Rahn nodded again. “He wasn’t always like that. He was hurt badly when Inger left him.”

“I met her. She is very beautiful. Are they still married or anything?”

He warmed to her. “Anything would be closer, I believe. He wouldn’t take her back now, after all she has done.”

She nodded, then said quietly, “I’ll bid you farewell, Commander. Thank you for telling me about him.” She slipped away as the U-boat surfaced next to the Prinz, and Rahn was still thinking about their brief conversation as Hechler had seen him over the side. He hoped Hechler would realise it himself, but Rahn was fully prepared to give him a nudge in the right direction if his friend showed any signs of stubborn-ness. It was a troubled U-boat Commander that conned the submarine beneath the waves, and as the fast screws of the heavy cruiser faded away, Rahn lay in his bunk, thinking of the battles ahead.

************************************************** ************


Hope you like it!


Cheers

Oh yes siree....I certainly like :up: :rock:

Oh god, 2 chapters... I have some catching up to do.

It was worth the wait!!!


Bring on the next installment!!:up::up:

Here we go - more characters :D

************************************************** **************

The Naval Base of Freetown was packed with ships of all design. Warships of every class and size, then the merchantmen, the newer, grey plating of the Victory and Liberty ships contrasting against the rusty, buckled plating on the older tramp steamers. The warships added colour to the scene, mostly the darker hues and garish dazzle paint of the Atlantic vessels at odds with the paler hulls of ships from the Indian Ocean and beyond, having made the long voyage up from the Cape.

There were stubby little Canadian corvettes that had fought their charges all the way from Newfoundland, and then the large, powerful cruisers with the range and armament to cover vast areas of ocean well beyond the Cape of Good Hope or Gibraltar. Freighters, tankers, ammunition ships and troopships – there was even a hospital ship, its dazzling white paintwork and vibrant red crosses shimmering in the harsh sunlight.

The largest warship in Freetown was the HMS Renown, the leading battlecruiser of the Renown-class. He only sister ship, the HMS Repulse, had been sunk back in 1941 by Japanese bombers. The big 30,000 ton vessel dominated the harbour, and even the large County-class heavy cruisers looked small next to her. She was heavily armed with six 15-inch guns mounted in three twin-turrets, as well as fifteen 4-inch guns as her secondary armament. She could make 30 knots when hard pushed – well she had used to be able to make 30 knots, Captain Roger Pembroke, Royal Navy, DSO mused to himself. There was a good reason why the two battlecruisers had been nicknamed ‘HMS Repair’ and ‘HMS Refit’.

Pembroke sat in his cabin; the scuttles wide open in an attempt to suck even the faintest breeze into sweltering cabin. He sat beneath the deckhead fan, a pink gin in his hand as he surveyed the signal that had just been handed. The ship was deserted apart from the necessary hands needed for the harbour duty. The rest of the ships officers were out playing golf or cricket. The reason was obvious. The Renown had broken down. Again. Pembroke sighed to himself as he removed the cap from his head and ran a sweaty hand through his greying hair. He was a tall man, and the white shirt and Bermuda shorts made him look ungainly. There were damp patches under his armpits as he looked savagely at the deckhead fan. It had stopped moving, yet another broken item to be fixed, he thought. At least they would be able to move tomorrow – well they would if the repairs were finished on time.

He was in his late forties, and had served in the Navy all his life. He sat looking back on his career and wondered where it had gone wrong. True, he was the Captain of one of the more powerful ships in Her Majesty’s navy, but in truth the Renown was clapped out, a relic from the Great War. He had only managed to get this command because of his influence. Without his connections, and had there not been a war on, he would have been thrown out of the navy when his last ship had sunk underneath him on that fateful dawn morning.

He could remember it as if it was yesterday, the dawn just beginning to lift, the hazy outlines of the freighters around him growing harder, sharper in the rising light. Then, the sudden explosion, the fires around the deck as he had stumbled from the bridge in a daze, one glance telling him all he needed to know. She was going down. He remembered little else except for another explosion, then finding himself in the water, watching the stern of his ship rising up out of the sea, her three screws gleaming. Then she slipped below the surface, seeming to quiver as she went on her way. His ship, HMS Glasgow, gone.

Then he remembered being picked up, one of the few survivors. The sudden agony as he had been pulled aboard the boat. Unconsciously his hand moved to his lower arm, rubbing the disfigured skin. The burns had never fully healed. His convalescence at Haslar Naval Hospital had been brief, but he had managed to find the name of the German who had brought his career crashing down around him.

He started as there was a knock at the door and his second-in-command, Commander Bruce Manning entered the room. He looked at him as Manning said, “I hear we have some news, sir.”

Pembroke smiled, “Yes, Bruce.” His eyes grew distant. “Have a drink while you’re here.”

He stared out of the scuttle as a small dinghy pulled away from the side of the ship, the seamen grinning to each other. When he looked back at Manning, he found the officer sitting in a chair opposite him, sipping a gin slowly.

Pembroke cleared his throat. Damn the heat, he thought. “The Jerries have put one of their big cruisers to sea. They think it may be the Prinz Luitpold.” His eyes hardened. “I hope to God it is!”

The Commander sipped his gin and looked steadily at his superior. “She won’t get this far south, not at this stage in the war, sir.” He nodded emphatically. “I mean, it’s just not on, sir!”

Pembroke sighed to himself. Manning had no balls whatsoever, he thought to himself. He knew that the war would end soon, and Pembroke also knew that once it was over he would be thrown onto the beach like so many others. Discarded. They even had some phrase about it. ‘God and the Navy we adore, when danger threatens and not before!’ He looked at the signal, from today, he was promoted to Acting-Commodore of a small squadron consisting of two other ships; the County-class cruiser moored next to them and the HMNZS Christchurch, a Leander-class light cruiser. She looked like a destroyer next to the Renown, but Pembroke knew her crew were trained well.

He thought about the German raider. As Manning had said, it was unlikely that the Prinz Luitpold would reach the South Atlantic, but it was his last chance. The only chance he had to make that last-step to flag rank. Harwood, the commander of the squadron that had run the Graf Spee to ground, had made flag rank immediately afterwards. But that wasn’t the only reason he wanted to get the raider.

Manning said carefully, “I’d forgotten, sir. You’ve already crossed swords with the Prinz Luitpold before. North Cape, wasn’t it?”

“I don’t forget! But that’s not the reason I want to battle with her.” He gazed savagely at the bulkhead. “She’s got a new captain now. Dieter Hechler.” He spat the name out. “He took the Glasgow from me, the bastard. We’ll see how he likes it now.” He looked at Manning, noting the man flinch from his angry gaze. “He can’t hide under the ****ing water this time!” His voice had risen to a shout, and Pembroke was suddenly aware that his glass was empty, and the young sailor outside the scuttle frozen in place.

With an effort he lowered his voice. “We’re to take the Christchurch and the Devonshire, Bruce, and reinforce a convoy. Apparently there’s only one in the area with no escort. A couple of destroyers, but nothing to fend off the likes of the Prinz Luitpold.” He clapped his hands together. “Recall all the officers, Bruce, and send a signal to Devonshire and the Kiwi. I want their commanding officers on board, chop bloody chop!”

As Manning hurried from his cabin, Pembroke poured a large measure of gin into his glass. He wondered if Hechler knew that the *Lübeck had scuttled herself. Somehow he doubted it. The signal had completely changed his mood. He nodded to himself. There was no way that Hechler was getting away from him this time.

************************************************** *****************

The old captain stood on the port bridge wing, staring over the horizon. It was one of those rare days in the Atlantic where the sea was flat calm, the sky blending with the water in a haze on the horizon. They were the last ship on the far port column of the convoy. If he had glanced forward and across to starboard he would have seen the other twenty ships they were steaming with. A destroyer raced up the line, investigating a contact no doubt. He shivered to himself. He dreaded the U-boats, the unseen killers. He hoped to God the destroyer would keep her at arms length.

They had passed the Cape Verde islands to starboard in the night, and in a few hours the covering squadron from Freetown was due to meet up with them. It was rumoured the Repulse would be leading the squadron. His ship was the S.S. Keverne, an 8000 ton tramp steamer. He rubbed his bristled chin – it was a custom of his never to shave until he crossed the Liverpool bar. Safety.

He thought of the reports. A German raider? They must have got it wrong. Either she had already returned to Norway or had run into one of the pickets up north. He looked across the bridge as a young sailor called out to him. “Look, there’s a plane, sir!”

The captain looked across at him in disgust. “Can’t you bloody well report it properly! Where away? What bearing?”

He held the binoculars to his eyes and saw the tiny silver flash in the sky. It wasn’t a Sunderland that was for sure. He said flatly. “It’s a Jerry.” He looked out over the port beam, into the haze. Suddenly, there was a series of flashes. Eight of them. He counted the seconds, hardly believing his eyes, until there was a wild shrieking as the shells came screaming down around him. He felt the hull lurch as one exploded low on the port beam. The motion instantly changed, the ship was slowing down. He didn’t need to pull the old steamer out of line; there was nothing behind him.

Gradually they fell astern, seemingly forgotten as he watched the convoy in front of him being torn to shreds. The shells never seemed to stop, just sent salvo after salvo into the merchantmen. He cringed as an ammunition ship blew up in a mighty gout of flame. He looked across at the horizon again as he saw the silhouette. He saw the guns pointed high in the sky, the ripple of flashes along her length as the guns fired again. The shell splashes landed amongst the few remaining ships as the captain shook his head in dismay; seemingly oblivious to the list his own ship was taking.

************************************************** *****************

Cheers for reading this far - I know the posts can be quite long. I have to say I'm really enjoying writing them though :p

Words escape me :rock: :rock: :rock:

Tres Bien Mon Kapitan!:up:

As I enjoy reading them. Well done....Waiting anxiously for the rest

Here we go, next installment to be posted soon!

************************************************** *************

“Stop engines.” Pembroke’s voice was harsh to disguise his inner feelings as he gazed across the macabre scene. “Lower the boats.”

Acting-Commodore Roger Pembroke was appalled at the scene. They had met with the convoy, as per their orders, only to find that the convoy now consisted of two ships, and even they were barely able to move. He looked down to the water, seeing the Renown’s high stem parting the endless litter of bodies, wreckage and human remains as the way came off the ship. Half a mile astern of them the heavy cruiser Devonshire and the New Zealand cruiser Christchurch followed slowly after them, their signal lamps flashing at them.

The convoy must have scattered at the last minute, a futile attempt to pull away from the raider’s guns. He lowered his binoculars and looked across the sea, watching as a destroyer lashed herself to a listing freighter and helped douse flames that were dancing over the decks. There was burnt and scorched paintwork and a heavy slick of oil across the sea. There were a few men floating in the water, alive; their bodies shining in oil as they coughed pitifully awaiting rescue from the battlecruiser’s boats. There were more corpses than living, but it was worth a try.

“Signal Christchurch to cover us, Bruce.”

The lamp clattered again, and a distant voice called, “Lower away!” They were launching one of the old whalers. He snorted; what wasn’t old in this ship? The motorboat had already left the side with the surgeon aboard as it slowly picked its way through the carnage. A long black line lifted and dipped above the water like a crippled submarine, and Pembroke was shocked to realise it was the keel of an escorting destroyer. There was no trace of the other escort, a corvette.

The other surviving ship was a large tanker, its deck almost awash. There were fires raging across the deck, and also in the sea where some oil had spilled. Pembroke swallowed slowly as the painful cries of men came from the fires floating on the water. The men had tried to swim away from the ship, to safety. Instead, they had only hastened their death.

Pembroke said savagely, “A whole convoy wiped out but for these pathetic remains! He attacked four hours ago. Four hours!” Pembroke glared around at the bridge crew. “All they needed was another day – we would have been escorting the convoy by then, and the escort group on their way from Gib. Such bloody luck!”

The Admiralty had confirmed that the raider was the Prinz Luitpold, and there were fresh details coming out every hour. Now the German could be anywhere. He thought of the signals, and the information from the listing freighter, Keverne which had been left almost untouched. Somebody aboard that poor freighter had kept his head, and reported seeing the cruiser’s faint silhouette as she had headed away at full speed to the south-west. Manning had asked, “Give chase, sir?”

Pembroke had studied his charts and convoy lists with little luck. The raider had steamed away without sinking the Keverne. There had to be a reason. Now as he watched the oil-streaked boats picking their way amongst the human remains, he went over it again for the hundredth time.

Give chase. To where? To the coastline of Brazil, or back along the same course? It had certainly caused high blood pressure in London, he thought. Every British warship was already under orders. A nightmare for the Allied Command. There could be no let-up in the lines of supply to France. The Channel was filled with vessels of every kind, carrying fuel and ammunition. Acording to latest intelligence, there were at least seventeen major convoys at sea, all well escorted for the most part, but to repel U-boat and bombing attacks, not a bloody great cruiser like the Prinz Luitpold.

Pembroke still couldn’t work out how it had happened. The RAF recce boys had reported that after the battle near Bear Island, Prinz Luitpold had been seen and photographed back in her Norwegian lair. It didn’t make any sense. Somebody’s head would be on the block because of it, but it still didn’t offer any satisfaction to repel the horror of the destroyed convoy.

He glanced across the open bridge, the intent figures and anxious faces. A midshipman was retching into his handkerchief as he stared at the gruesome, bobbing remains.

Pembroke rasped, “Get off my bridge, damn you, until you can act like a man!”

It was cruel and unfair, and Pembroke knew it but didn’t care. He thought of Manning’s words, and his own replies. “Give chase? I don’t think so, Bruce. He had a reason for letting the Keverne stay afloat. He wanted her to see him steam away, and report his course.” It felt easier now that he had decided. “No, I reckon he changed direction as soon as he was clear of all this. Get the convoy lists, and we’ll study the chart. He used to be a ****ing U-boat Commander – they’re all devious bastards, the lot of ‘em!”

A messenger hurried onto the bridge, and handed a piece of paper to Pembroke. “Signal from the Admiralty, sir.” Pembroke nodded to the man and studied the message.

To HMS Renown, Commodore’s eyes only.

In the last two hours, a U-boat was captured in position N30’15 E59’12. Said U-boat of large ‘Milch Cow’ supply submarine type. Courageous action on part of crew of HMS Pansy allowed capture of certain documents. Enigma machine and codebooks not, repeat not, captured but documents refer to rendezvous with Hipper-class cruiser Prinz Luitpold. Submarine loaded with fuel and 8-inch ammunition. Rendezvous position indicates raider is heading for Caribbean.

You are hereby requested and required to take squadron P (HMS Renown, HMS Devonshire, HMNZS Christchurch) to rendezvous to close down raider and destroy her without delay. Current intelligence indicates raider will commence attacks against shipping in Caribbean.

Admiralty

Pembroke read through the message once more, carefully making sure it said what it did. His hunch had been right – the cruiser had changed course once clear of the convoy. He wrinkled his nose. “Signal a recall to the boats and we’ll get underway. The destroyer can stand by the survivors until the escort group turns up.”

“Change course, head north-west. Full speed ahead.”

Pembroke looked down at the survivors being led away below decks, huddled in blankets. There did not seem to be many of them, he thought. For Pembroke, the war had suddenly become a personal one.

************************************************** *****************

Hechler stamped his feet on the deck to restore his circulation and looked around the damp decks. The visibility had lifted, but the sky was still dark and overcast. They had steered south-west from the convoy, and Leitner had only once questioned his judgement.

Hechler had answered, “The British will look for clues. By heading south-west in view of the freighter, they will think it was a ruse, and expect us to alter course immediately to throw them off the scent. I would.”

Leitner had seemed to consider it, his eyes unreadable. “But if not, Dieter? Suppose the British admiral thinks as you do?” Then he had nodded and smiled. “But then they will think we are after the troop convoy. The other ruse has worked as well. BdU have had no further communication with the supply submarine that was to be captured by the British with our fake orders.”

Heavy units of the Home Fleet were already rushing to reinforce the troop convoy and swell its defences. Suicide for any attacking surface raider, but with such high stakes, the end might justify the means. Because of that risk no admiral would dare leave the convoy unguarded. It was one of the biggest of its kind, too large to turn back, too vital to stop.

So the Prinz Luitpold had continued as before. They had been forced to miss their first rendezvous with the Milch Cow in order to intercept the convoy, but they were now a few hundred miles off the coast of Brazil, heading for another rendezvous.

Hechler had thought about the attack on the convoy a lot since they had fled the scene. It had been so easy, and he had found no satisfaction from it. It had been slaughter, the careering merchantmen and their escorts falling to their massive bombardment like targets in a fairground. It was their war. What they had been trained for. What they must do.

Hechler glanced at his watch. The rendezvous would be in twenty minutes time. There was a coughing roar from amidships and Hechler shifted uneasily in his chair. He wanted to walk aft and watch the brightly painted Arado as it was tested on the catapult. Leitner had told him that it would be launched without further delay. The camera team would be down there too, waiting to record their audacity as they flew off the new aircraft, indifferent to the enemy and what they could do.

Hechler had seen the girl when he had left the bridge to visit the various action stations as the ship had steamed away from the convoy. She had been in the hangar, where her new Arado had been housed throughout the bombardment, its wings detached and stowed separately rather than folded. They had faced each other awkwardly, like strangers.

Hechler had heard himself enquiring how she had taken the din of the salvos and the vicious shaking of the hull that had accompanied the smoke and din from each crash of gunfire.

She had watched him as if to see her own answers without asking the questions. Now she was down there with the aircraft-handling party. Ready to fly off, so that some lunatic’s desire for patriotic realism could be filmed.

Suhren was standing next to him. “I think it is madness to put that plane in the air. Suppose…” He looked around quickly, then whispered, “He’s coming up, sir.”

Leitner strode onto the bridge, his familiar silk scarf flapping in the keen air, but otherwise unprotected by a heavier coat. He smiled at the bridge party and returned Hechler’s salute.

“According to my watch…” He frowned as Clausen called, “Permission to alter course for take-off, sir?”

Hechler nodded. “Warn the engine room.”

Leitner’s good humour returned. “See, the sky is brightening. It will do our people at home a lot of good to see these films.” He glared as his aide appeared on the bridge. “Well?”

The flag-lieutenant eyed him worriedly. “The camera team would like you to join them, sir.” He glanced shyly at Hechler. “I have a list of questions you will be asked.”

Leitner clapped one hand on his chest and gave an elaborate sigh. “What we must do in the name of duty!”

Clausen lifted his face from the voicepipe as the helmsman acknowledged the change of course. He watched as Leitner marched to the aft-ladder and then looked over at Heyse, who shared the watch with Froebe.

He said softly, “Does he fill you with pride, young Ulrich? Make you want to spill your guts for your country?” He grimaced. “Sometimes I despair.”

Hechler heard him, but let it pass. Clausen was releasing the tension in his usual way.

“Ready to fly off aircraft, sir!”

“Slow ahead all engines.”

Hechler walked from his chair and leaned over the screen, the damp wind pressing into his face. He saw the camera team down aft, some sailors freshly changed into their best uniforms, outwardly chatting to their admiral. Hechler looked at the vibrating Arado on the catapult, trained outward ready to be flown off.

He saw the girl’s helmeted head lowered to speak with one of the deck crew before she closed the cockpit cover and waved a gloved hand. He felt his stomach contract and was stunned by the sudden concern. There was nothing that they could do or share. What was the matter with him? Was it Inger’s fury or his own loneliness? He tensed as the shining Arado roared from the catapult and without hesitation climbed up and away from the slow moving cruiser.

“Five minutes, sir!”

Clausen’s voice made him pull his thoughts together. It was more like a shoal of than a surfacing submarine, Hechler thought. Long flurries of spray and frothing bubbles, so that when the hull eventually appeared half a mile away it rose with a kind of tired majesty.

Heyse exclaimed, “God she’s big!”

The huge submarine surfaced and lay on the heaving water like a gigantic whale. Unlike a combat U-boat she lacked both menace and dignity. Even as they watched, men were swarming from her squat conning-tower, while from her casing, untidy-looking derricks and hoses were already rising from hidden compartments.

The tannoy blared below the bridge, and men ran to the prepared tackles and winches, ready to haul the fuel lines to the bunkers. Hechler saw men waving to each other across the water. It must be a heartening sight to such a large warship at large in enemy waters, he thought.

A telephone buzzed and Heyse called, “Chief Engineer reports hoses connected, sir.”

“Very good. Warn the wheelhouse to hold her steady.” Hechler watched the hoses jerking as the fuel was pumped across the gap of heaving water. What a strange war it was becoming.

************************************************** *****************

Erika Franke adjusted the clips of her safety harness and peered to starboard as she eased the Arado into a shallow dive. She had flown several of these float planes when she had been a delivery pilot, before she had been requested to fly for Luftwaffe special section. She watched the grey wastes of the Atlantic tilt to one side as if it was part of a vast sloping desert, an occasional white horse where the wind had broken the swell into crests.

The cruiser had already fallen far astern, and it was hard to picture her as she had first seen the ship. Huge, invulnerable and somehow frightening. But once aboard it had seemed so much smaller, the great hull broken into small intimate worlds. She watched the ship in the distance, her outline strangely broken and unreal in its striped dazzle paint. Beyond her was the shape of the supply submarine.

She saw the Perspex screen mist over very slightly and adjusted her compass accordingly. They were too high for spray. The looming clouds said rain. She bit her lip. If the visibility fell away she must return to the ship immediately. She touched the microphone across her mouth. “Rain soon.” She heard the observer, Westphal. Acknowledge her comment with a grunt. A thickset, bovine man, he obviously resented being in the hands of a woman. She ignored him. It was nothing new in her life.

She deliberately altered course away from the ship. If only she could fly and fly, leave it all behind until… she checked herself as Hechler’s grave features intruded into her thoughts.

A withdrawn man, he must have been badly hurt and not just by war. She remembered his voice, his steady blue eyes when he had visited her after the encounter with the enemy convoy. His presence had calmed her, like that moment when you fly out of a storm into sunlight.

During the bombardment, she had felt utterly helpless. The ship, powerful though she was, had shaken like a mad thing, with every plate and rivet threatening to tear apart, or so it had seemed. Then Hechler, his voice and his quiet confidence had covered like a blanket.

The Arado swayed jerkily and she quickly increased the throttle until the misty propeller settled again. She remembered young Heyse, he was a nice young man, she thought, and she had seen him looking at her when she had joined the others in the wardroom for meals. It made her smile within the confines of her helmet. She was twenty-eight, but far older in other ways than Heyse would every dream. Why did they have to be so predictable? Those who saw her only as an easy victory, a romp in bed.

She came back with a start as Westphal’s surly voice intruded into her memories.

“Time to turn. Visibility;s down.”

They would fly back now, she thought, and the camera crew would film her landing near the ship, and again as she stepped aboard to be greeted by Andreas Leitner. Strange how people of his kind always professed to be such men of the world, with ah eye for every pretty girl.

She had met plenty like Leitner. It was surprising that the war machine attracted so many who might have been happier as women. She considered Hechler again. Dominated by his wife? Hardly. What was it then with women like Inger Hechler? She had seen her occasionally at those staid parties in Berlin which so often had changed into something wild, repellent.

She moved the controls sharply so that the plane tilted over to port. She could feel the pull of her harness, the pain as the Arado went over even further until it appeared as if the wingtip was cutting the water like a fin. The changing light, the endless procession of unbroken waves, or was it a shadow?

“Dead ahead!” She eased the throttle with great care. “Do you see it?”

Westphal had been deep in thought, watching her hair beneath the leather helmet, imagining how she would fight him, claw at him, when he took her.

He exclaimed, startled, “What? Where?”

She found that she could watch the submarine quite calmly, for that was what it was. It looked dark, blue-grey, like a shark, with a lot of froth streaming from aft, and a faint plume of vapour above the conning-tower.

Westphal recovered himself, his voice sharp as he snapped, “Enemy boat! Charging batteries!” He reached forward to prod her shoulder. “Back to the ship, fast!”

The girl eased the controls over to port. Westphal had seen what he had expected to see, but had missed something vital. The submarine was trimmed too high. It must be damaged, unable to dive. Thoughts raced through her mind, and in her imagination she could hear Hechler’s voice, then see the cruiser and the supply submarine lying somewhere back there, totally unaware of this unexpected threat. Dmaged she might be, but her commander wouldn’t hesitate when Prinz Luitpold’s silhouette swam in front of his sights.

Erika Franke had learnt quite a lot about the navy, and one of the things which stood out in her mind was something which Kroll the gunnery officer had said about his new radar. That a submarine on the surface nearby could interfere with accuracy, and that was exactly what was happening now.

She thrust the controls forward and tilted the Arado into a steep dive. She felt the plane quivering, the rush of wind rising above the roar of the BMW engine.

Westphal shouted wildly, “What the hell are you doing? They’ll see us!”

Sure enough there were tiny ant-like figures on the submarine’s deck. They might have picked up the supply boat’s engines on their sonar, or even the heavier revolutions of the Prinz Luitpold., but the sight of a brightly painted engine must have caught them on the hop.

She laughed. “Scared, are you?” The Arado’s shadow swept over the water like an uneven crucifix, and then tumbled away as she brought the nose up to the clouds. It was responding well; she could even smell the newness in the fuselage and fittings.

She shouted, “By the time we make contact with the ship it would all be over!”

She winced as several balls of livid green tracer floated past the port wing, and the plane danced wildly to shell-bursts. The clouds enfolded the aircraft and she peered at the compass, her brain working coolly but urgently as she pictured the other vessels, the enemy submarine’s bearing and line of approach. She was probably American, one of their big ocean-going boats, which she had studied in the recognition books. She held her breath and pushed the stick forward, and felt the floats quiver as they burst out of the clouds into a great span of watery sunlight.

Just right for the camera team, she thought vaguely. Then more shell-bursts erupted on either side, and lazy balls of tracer fanned beneath her, so that she instinctively drew her legs together. The plane jerked, and she heard metal rip past her body. But the engine was behaving well. It was time to turn back. They must have heard the shooting. There was still time.

She twisted round in her seat to yell at Westphal, but choked on a scream as she saw his bared teeth, his fist bunched in agony at the moment of impact. His goggles were completely filled with blood, like a creature from a nightmare. The plane rocked again, and she almost lost control as more bursts exploded nearby. She felt as if all the breath had been knocked from her body, and when she looked down she saw the tendril of blood seeping through the flying suit and over her belt.

Then the pain hit her like a hot iron, and she heard herself whimpering and calling whilst she tried to find the compass and bring the plane on to the right bearing. She felt the pain searing her body, so that her eyes misted over. She dared not turn her head where her hideous companion peered at her, his teeth set in a terrible grin. Nor could she call up the ship. Dared not. The submarine would know instantly what he probably only suspected.

“Oh dear God!” The words were torn from her. “Help me!”

But the engine’s roar drowned her cries and every vibration made her swoon in agony. There were no more explosions, and for a brief moment she imagined she had lost consciousness, was dying. Clouds leapt towards her and then writhed aside again to bathe the cockpit in bright sunlight. She cried out, then thrust one hand against her side as blood ran over her thigh and down into her flying boot.

There was the ship, the supply submarine almost alongside, with tiny line and pipes linking them like a delicate web. She saw the ship begin to turn anti-clockwise across the windshield, revolving faster and faster, blotting out everything until it seemed as if she were plunging straight for the bridge.

Her mind recorded several things at the same time. The lines between the two vessels were being cast off, and a great frothing wash was surging from beneath Prinz Luitpold’s bows as she increased to maximum speed.

The girl fought to control the spin, to bring the aircraft’s nose up and level off. All she could think of was that she had warned him. She would never know if she was in time.

************************************************** *************

Hope you enjoyed it, and I really appreciate your comments and replies. Thanks a lot!

Cheers,

Dan

Poor Erika...no happy homecoming there then :cry:

You keep writing and I'm sure all your avid readers will just keep on posting :rock:

Oh Lord, I'm falling behind :cry:. Four chapters to read...

Don't be so sure :p - did I ever say she was dead...

Cheers for the comments by the way :D