Oops! :oops: ...trust me to be presumptuous :damn: :up:

I like how you named the flower class escort HMS Pansy!:lol: It was one of two name that were never used for the flower class escorts, the other was dandelion.

Could you imagine a U-boat crew's shock at being sunk by a pansy!!:lol:

Heh-heh - yeah I couldn't help it :D I had to use that name at least once in the story.

Cheers

Well, quite a long installment this time. You get to find out about Erika, and some more background to Roger Pembroke. Enjoy!

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

Hechler walked out onto the port-side bridge wing and looked down on the big supply submarine as Josef Clausen, the big Navigating Officer joined him by the railings. It was going well, but any sudden crosswind might bring the unmatched vessels too close together.

“Alter course to two-two-zero degrees. Signal the submarine’s commander yourself.” He touched Clausen’s arm. “We don’t want oil spilled all over the ocean, eh?”

His ship was the best in her class for performance, and with the additional bunkers that had been installed a year ago she could cruise for almost 7000 miles without running out of fuel. With Willentrop’s bold strategy, it was unlikely the Prinz Luitpold would have to travel anywhere near that distance before meeting another supply submarine.

He thought of the girl in her brightly painted plane. It worried him more than he would have expected to have her onboard, and he still hadn’t worked out if she had an important role to play, or was merely another cog in Leitner’s vast public relations machine. At the same time he knew that he would miss her when she left the ship.

Clausen moved closer and lowered his glasses. He spoke softly to Hechler, his voice only just loud enough for Hechler to hear. “The Arado’s a long time, sir.” He eyed him worriedly. “Completely lost sight of it.”

Hechler peered over the railings to the rear of the bridge wing. One of the regular float planes was already on the catapult ready to launch, the handling party lounging around with nothing to do.

He started as Leitner strode onto the bridge, his mouth set into a thin line. “Where the bloody hell is that woman?” He moved about almost blindly as the watch crew jumped out of his path.

Clausen suggested, “Perhaps we should send up another aircraft, sir?”

Leitner stared at him. “Don’t be such a bloody idiot!”

Hechler saw the seamen nearby exchanging glances. Some looked worried, others pleased that a senior officer was getting a choking off for a change.

Hechler said, “I agree with him, sir.”

His eyes met with Leitner’s. He felt calm and relaxed even though he wanted to shout at Leitner. Go on; tell me I’m a bloody idiot!

Leitner recovered his composure somewhat. “It’s taking too long,” he said mildly.

Hechler looked at Clausen and winked. The admiral had climbed down for the moment. He moved back across the bridge to look at the fuelling operation. In the Great War, the raiders had been tied down to the coaling stations, built up in readiness for such a dangerous form of sea piracy. He smiled in spite of his anxiety for the girl. Piracy. Is that what we have come to?

And yet, in spite of the quiet discipline, or perhaps because of it, there was something not quite right. Like a fault in a painting. He knew it was not Leitner’s outburst, or Clausen’s embarrassed confusion at being reprimanded like a first-year midshipman in front of the watch. No, it was a feeling of uneasiness.

He made up his mind. “Warn the Milch Cow, and then sound off action stations.”

Leitner heard him and glared from the other side of the bridge. “It’ll make them jumpy!”

Hechler grinned. “I am jumpy, sir.” He heard the clamour of bells, muffled and far away beyond the thick plating.

Leitner climbed onto the bridge chair and tugged his cap down over his eyes. When one of the camera team requested permission to come to the bridge, Leitner snapped, “When I’m ready, damn him!”

Hechler lowered his voice. “Pass the word to the catapult, Josef. Prepare to launch aircraft.” A telephone buzzed and seconds later the Arado’s engine spluttered, then bellowed into life.

Leitner swung round. “Of all the bloody useless things to do…”

He got no further as the gunnery intercom filled the bridge. “Gunfire to the north-west!”

Hechler moved like lightening to the compass platform. “Discontinue fuelling!” He snatched up the bright red handset and waited, silently cursing the seconds it took to connect. Then he heard the voice of the Chief Engineer, Stück, from the depths of the engine-room, muffled behind the clamour of the machinery in the background.

Stück began, “I’m sorry about the delay, Captain, but we’re almost topped up…”

Hechler said, “Stop immediately, Chief. Maximum revolutions when I give the word.” He slammed down the handset. There was nothing to add. Stück was an experienced officer, and knew better than most the narrowness of their margin.

He waved an arm over the railings. “Cast off! Take in those wires!”

Leitner was behind him, standing by the chair, peering at him wildly. “What the hell’s going on?”

“Gunfire means an enemy, sir.”

He swung round as a lookout yelled, “Aircraft, Red four-five, angle of sight four-oh!”

“Stand by, secondary armament!” Without looking, Hechler could imagine the twin turrets along the port side already lifting and training in the cold air. But for what? Hechler moved briskly to the front of the bridge again and peered through the heavy glasses.

He found the Arado almost immediately, watching as it rolled sluggishly from side to side, but apparently intact. He felt his heart throbbing as he followed every painful movement.

Clausen had leaned over the rail, and was bellowing at the seamen below. “Clear that breast-rope, damn it!”

Hechler tore his gaze away from the stricken aircraft and looked alongside, seeing the remaining wire dragging the heavy, ungainly submarine dangerously close to the cruiser’s hull.

“Cut that line! Now!”

He turned back to the plane urgently, but it had already disappeared into some low clouds.

The gunnery intercom suddenly blared into life, startling the bridge crew. “Submarine on the surface, bearing Red two-oh. Range four thousand!”

Leitner suddenly erupted into life, almost beside himself in rage. “How can that be?” He peered over the salt-stained screen. “Oh, for Christ’s sake!”

Hechler called, “All ahead flank!” He felt the ship respond instantly, the deck plates beneath his feet trembling vigorously as the powerful engines churned the water into a foaming maelstrom behind the ship. It was now or never. If the wire refused to break then they would take the Milch Cow with them.

The port lookout was leaning against the screen, holding the glasses with both hands to steady them. “Aircraft in sight again, sir. Closing. Shift bearing to Red six-oh!”

Hechler gripped the rail tightly; his mouth set in a thin line as he grimly watched the long bow rise and then surge forward in front of him.

“Line’s parted, sir!”

“Open fire!”

The three turrets along the portside opened fire instantly, their sharp explosions making men grasp quickly for earplugs, others to crouch down away from the savage back-blast as the long tongues of fire seemed to reach out to the submarine.

Clausen called, “Supply boat’s diving, sir!” He sounded breathless, not surprising considering his massive bulk.

Great fountains of spray jumped from the Milch Cow’s saddle tanks as the green water thundered into them, her wash indicating the increase in speed. Hechler could see himself in the same position, surprised on the surface like that fateful morning in the Bay of Biscay as Rahn had dived the boat as fast as possible whilst Hechler hung in-between consciousness, the biting pain numbing his senses. He shuddered despite himself and tore his gaze back to the Arado.

He saw it reel over the ship and appear to level off as if on an invisible wire. Despite its fast pass overhead, Hechler had managed to see the black, star-like holes peppered across the fuselage, some of which seemed to cross the cockpit itself.

“Port twenty!” He wrapped his arms around the voicepipes with such a force that the pain helped to bring his mind back to an even keel after the numbing ache that the last sight had given him. She had drawn enemy fire. There was no other possible reason except to warn the ship.

He felt the deck going over like a destroyer. “Steady! Hold her!”

A messenger burst onto the bridge, skidding to a halt in front of Hechler, his expression wild as he stared with wide eyes as the scene of confusion in front of him. “The enemy submarine has sent a signal, sir! In the clear, not encoded – Have found German raider. Am engaging!”

Voices yelled on every side as the secondary armament recoiled on the mountings once more, the shells flinging up thin waterspouts against the horizon where the enemy lay hidden in the swell. Hechler could see it all in his mind – he had been in the other position himself.

He looked back, but the messenger had already disappeared. From the other side of the bridge there was a wild yell. “Torpedoes running to port!”

Clausen jumped to the voice-pipe but Hechler had seen the angle, and snapped, “Steady as she goes!”

He looked quickly at the supply-boat. Her bows were already under water, her conning tower following as fast as possible as she prepared to run deep and head away. Much slower than a Type-7 sub, Hechler thought distractedly. She would not even be a spectator, let alone stay around to pick up survivors.

Hechler looked quickly at the aircraft again, watching in horror as the nose pointed up and swung round anti-clockwise, moving around faster and faster as the Arado dropped quickly towards the sea in a flat spin. He silently prayed as he watched, and just before the plane hit the water, she levelled off and stopped spinning before dropping into the water, and bobbing up and down in the swell.

Hechler’s attention was torn away from the plane as a massive explosion rent the air, the concussion momentarily deafening him as he saw the dense black smoke billowing across the water, thick tendrils weaving through the tall masts. Throughout it all the intercom kept up a running commentary.

“Short!” Then, “A straddle! Got the bastards!”

Hechler staggered to the front of the bridge, almost falling over a young signalman. He could barely remember the boy’s name as he was their newest crew member. Logged as seventeen years old, Hechler guessed he was much younger.

He dragged him upright by his tunic and shouted, “Hold on, Heimrath!” he could hear the young man retching and gasping in the dense smoke. “It’s not us this time!”

The torpedoes must have hit the big submarine just as she had made to dive. Hechler knew that there would be nothing left, packed as she was with fuel, ammunition and spare torpedoes. It would all have been thrown into the air and scatter over the ocean for over half a mile, and some had even clattered across the Prinz Luitpold’s forecastle and maindeck.

“Target is diving, sir.”

Diving or sinking, it made little difference now. The last salvo would have put her out of the fight, and Hechler suspected it had split her pressure hull like an egg. He could already picture her falling slowly into the depths, blacker than any death pall as cold seawater thundered into the submarine, drowning her brave crew before the depths crushed them into a pulp.

“Slow ahead.” Hechler dabbed his mouth with his sleeve, already controlling his expression as he steadied himself after the wild confusion. He saw men peering at one another, dazed with wild eyes as they sought out their friends.

Hechler gripped the rail tightly with both hands. “Tell the accident boat to stand by.” He saw Clausen nod. “Lower to the waterline. Now!” Almost reluctantly, training and discipline reasserted themselves as seamen went about their tasks.

Leitner strode across the bridge, glaring at Hechler. “Another minute and we’d have shared the same end, Dieter. If I didn’t know any better…” He trailed off as Hechler walked past him and trained his glasses on the Arado rolling on the swells.

He said. “Stop engines. Slip the boat!”

He raised the glasses once more, searching the plane as he prepared himself for what he might find there.

A voice murmured over the intercom, “Sounds of ship breaking up, sir.”

It must be the enemy submarine. There would be little enough left of the Milch Cow to disturb the sonar.

He flinched as he saw the horrific face in the rear cockpit. Eyes of blood in the goggles as his fists were clenched behind the stiff figure slumped over the controls.

“Get the doctor on deck!” There was a new harshness in his voice as he swallowed painfully, his eyes never leaving the slumped figure.

Heyse looked up from the voice-pipes. “He’s already there, sir.”

The motorboat ploughed into view across the lens, familiar faces he knew and respected leaping past his vision.

A voice said, “The boat will tow it to the hoisting gear, sir.”

Leitner seemed to speak from miles away. “It’s afloat anyway. Good thing.”

Was that all Leitner cared? Was it perhaps unimportant to him when so many men had died horribly just moments ago? He gripped the binoculars harder as the motorboat’s bowman clambered onto one of the plane’s floats and hauled himself onto the fuselage. He wrenched open the cockpit and faltered. It must be a hundred times worse close to, Hechler thought despairingly. The he saw the man turn and signal. One dead. She was alive. Alive.

He lowered the glasses to his chest and made himself walk slowly to the chart table. Around him, the smoke-grimed and dazed watchkeepers watching him dully. Hechler said, “As soon as the boat is hoisted inboard, get underway and alter course as prearranged.” He saw Clausen nod. “I want a full inspection of hull and upper deck. We could have sustained some minor damage.” He touched the rail again. Even as he said it, he suspected that the Prinz would be unscathed.

He looked back at Clausen. “Take over.” He half-turned to the rear-admiral. “With your permission of course, sir?”

Leitner looked away. “Granted.”

Bells jangled and the ship gathered way again. Hechler hesitated at the top of the ladder to watch as the Arado was swung over the guardrails on its special derrick. The doctor and his assistant were there, and some men with stretchers. He hesitated again and looked into the bridge. His world. Now he was sharing it. Hopeless? Perhaps it was. But she was alive. Because of what she had done, they had all survived. He glanced at the admiral’s stiff shoulders. He had made an enemy there, but it no longer mattered.

He nodded to Clausen and then hurried down the ladder. This world could wait.

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

Acting-Commodore Roger Pembroke sat in the soft high-backed chair in his cabin, his hand clasped around a large gin. Dusk was closing in, and the soft lighting gave the spacious cabin a welcoming, homely feel. He sighed as he thought about the last few days. HMS Renown had steamed at her best speed towards the fuelling rendezvous, her escorts easily keeping up. Pembroke wondered if his ship would ever reach her designed top speed of 32 knots ever again. He doubted it.

The evening was warm, and they were quite close to the equator, although Pembroke knew that the Caribbean weather would be hell in this ship. He looked critically at the glass in his hand. He couldn’t remember how many he’d had this evening, but it didn’t seem to matter. He knew he’d get to grips with Hechler soon.

He looked up as someone knocked on the door. Manning walked in, a couple of signal sheets clasped under his arm. He looked directly at Pembroke, a strange expression in his eyes.

Pembroke rasped savagely at him, “Get on with it man!”

Manning handed the signals over then looked at Pembroke, trying to gauge his reaction. Pembroke took one glance at the sheets before looking up again. “I assume you’ve seen these?” Manning nodded. “Very well. Alter course and inform the squadron.”

As Manning waked out of the cabin, Pembroke shouted loudly for his steward.

The man entered the room. “Can I do anything, Captain?”

Pembroke lifted his eyes momentarily, and stared unseeingly at the man’s face. “Yes.” He said slowly. “Get me a bottle of whisky.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea...”

Pembroke raged at him, his expression vivid. “Just get me the bloody bottle, man!”

He grinned in satisfaction as the man fled the cabin. He barely noticed him enter again with the bottle and glass. He thought of the signal. The Admiralty had received a report from a damaged American submarine. Apparently her Commander had sent a signal saying he had found the raider and was engaging. There had been no further communication with the sub, and when a British destroyer had reached the scene, they had found nothing for a full day, except for a for a two-mile oil slick, and some cork chippings of the kind used in a submarine’s internal paintwork to reduce condensation. The later, only a few hours ago, they had apparently found some human remains. To all accounts there had been little enough to discover in the grisly fragments, except that they were German.

The Admiralty had arrived at the conclusion that the raider had been destroyed, but it had cost the US submarine to destroy her. Pembroke had been ordered to take his small squadron to Cape Town and await further orders. Pembroke was no fool. It was the end for him. Surprisingly, he felt no satisfaction that Hechler was dead, only rage. He had wanted to beat him in combat himself. It was so unfair. He let out a guttural scream of frustration and threw the empty gin glass at the wall before stumbling over to the table and slopping some whisky into the glass.

As he looked up, his eyes rested on her photograph. He stood staring at her, his breath rasping in his throat. The same white, insincere smile, the bright, mocking eyes. How could he have been so blind?

He grasped the glass, nearly full with whisky, his eyes still on her face. Then he raised it to her, and said aloud, “To you, Mrs Pembroke. You bloody bitch!”

The spirit burned his throat like fire, and as it flowed fiercely through him, he realised just how much he needed it. He down three full glasses in quick succession, and then leaned back in the chair, breathing deeply. With unsteady fingers he unbuttoned his jacket, allowing the slight movement of air to caress his heaving chest.

Perhaps it might have turned out differently if he had done as she wanted. Left the navy, and settled down in one of her father’s paint factories. He laughed mirthlessly and touched his vivid scars. Of course it wouldn’t. No-one would have wanted him after he got these.

He had never given up hope and never lost the nagging feeling of desire whenever he was near her, and he had wanted to surprise her by flying home from Gibraltar after being given the Renown. He had surprised her well enough. He trembled, and the throbbing grew louder in his skull. If he lived forever, he would never forget, or clean from his mind, the picture of her sitting up naked in bed, her lips parted with terror and hate. The man had been whimpering about ‘not making a scene’ and about all their reputations. He had still been whimpering when Pembroke had beaten him senselessly to the floor. He had run blindly from the flat. He was still running.

He drank deeply, feeling the cloak of dizziness closing round him. He stared dully at the photograph, hearing her screaming after him, using words of such undreamed of baseness, that he had never been able to think of her without remembering her cruel and frightened insults.

He closed his eyes, raising the glass to his lips. He had never suspected, never imagined such a thing possible of her. He knew how bad he looked after losing the Glasgow, but her thought what they had went deeper than that. He swore loudly, but with a slow, clear intonation, as if repeating a religious script. What a fool I am, he thought weakly. He stood up suddenly, swaying against the table.

“Dear Sylvia,” he mumbled. “Dear, sweet, lovely Sylvia!” He retched, and felt the sweat cold on his chest. Then, taking the picture in his free hand, he studied her face, as if for the first time. That damned smile, and those little, exciting gestures. She was always conscious of every swing and movement of her tantalising body. And yet, he groped wildly for a sign, she must have loved him once. The he shook his head painfully. He knew he was only fooling himself, as he always had, where she was concerned. He smiled crookedly.

“A thoroughly delectable tart! That’s what you are, Mrs Pembroke!” He chuckled stupidly, and as he raised his glass, he saw her face framed in the amber liquid which helped him to fight her memory and the harsh fact that Hechler was now with his crew, sailing on their eternal voyage. “And damn that bloody Yankee to hell! He was mine!”

A sudden drunken realisation flooded over him, “You’ve caused all this!” His powerful voice rose to a frenzied shout. “You bloody bitch! You’ve got your divorce now. I hope you’re bloody well happy,” he fumbled with the words, “with your newest ‘interesting’ person!” He reeled across the cabin, cannoning into his bunk, collapsing onto it heedless of the whisky that spilled from the glass.

“You bloody bitch!” His head swam, and he felt he wanted to have her there in the cabin with him, so that he could tell it to her face, and then beat her to death. With a savage thrust, he hurled the picture against the cabin wall, hearing is smash with a smug satisfaction.

With a moan he picked the bottle up, and tilted it to his mouth, some of the spirit running over his chin and neck, the rest choking him, and making him fight for breath. He slumped back heavily, his arm, as it hung over the side of the bunk, still gripping the empty bottle.

A few hours later, his steward re-entered the cabin, shaking his head in disgust at the sight in front of him. He swept up the glass fragments, removed the bottle from Pembroke’s grip, and finally rolled the large captain over onto his front. At least he won’t suffocate from his own vomit now the man thought to himself. He switched the lights off before exiting the cabin and leaving the captain to his memories.

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




Hope you enjoyed that, and the next installment will be coming soon :D



Cheers,


isHis His

The good Commodore need's to attend an AA meeting and an anger management class!:hmm:

Sooooooooo.....Erika lives!....But with how many holes ?(bullet of course) :lol:

Dieter Hechler tapped softly on the door before easing it open and stepping into the cabin. They were his quarters below that he scarcely used when at sea, and he saw one of Stroheim’s assistants move past him as he walked through to the sleeping cabin. It had been four days since they had been attacked by the American submarine. They had steamed at an economical fifteen knots since then, and were now near the mid-Atlantic ridge, in between St. Helena and Ascension Island. They were throttled down at the moment, as Stück wanted to examine one of the propeller shafts which was making an irregular knocking noise.

She lay as she had when he had visited her after the fuelling. Propped up on pillows, her face was very pale in the bunk light. She looked very vulnerable, but unlike before, she was awake this time. He remembered standing beside the bunk, not moving and scarcely able to breathe as he had looked down on her. She had seemed so much younger, and her eyes had been shut tight, beads of perspiration on her upper lip and forehead. A splinter had hit her in the side, just above the hip, and she had lost a lot of blood and a bone chipped. Her skin had felt very hot when he had touched her, like a fever. Other than the red blotches on her bandages, or the bruising where the harness had dug into her, she was unmarked. A miracle, Stroheim had said.

After a moment’s hesitation, Hechler sat down on the side of the bunk, realising they were alone.

She watched him and said, “You look tired.”

He saw that she had placed her hands under the sheet. In case he might touch one, he thought.

“How are you feeling?”

She smiled at him. “The motion is awful. I was nearly sick.” She saw his concern and added, “I’m feeling better. Really.”

Hechler heard the dull clatter of equipment, the buzz of a telephone somewhere. Perhaps for him. No, the red handset by the bunk was silent. Mocking him.

He explained to her how the ship was moving slowly because of a problem with one of the shafts. Then he wet on to explain that in the next twelve hours they would be intercepting a major Allied convoy.

She listened in silence, her eyes never leaving his face.

“Don’t you get tired of it?” She reached out from beneath the sheet and gripped his hand. “It never ends for you, does it?”

He looked at her hand. Small but strong. He found that he was squeezing it in his own.

She seemed to sense he was about to withdraw his hand and said, “No. Stay like this, please.”

Hechler grimaced. “I am behaving like an idiot again.”

She returned his grip and smiled at him. “A nice idiot.”

Hechler smiled, and then said. “I want you to be well again very soon.” He studied her face, feature by feature. “My little bird belongs up there, where she is free.” He added, “I wish…”

She saw his hesitation and asked softly, “You wish I was not here, is that it? You are going to fight with the British warships, sooner or later, and you are afraid for me?” She tried to raise herself but fell back again. “Do you think I cannot tell what is going on in that head of yours? I have watched you, listened to what your men say, I gather fragments about you, because it is all I have!” She shook her head against the pillow. “Don’t you see, you stupid man, I want you to like me!” She was sobbing now, the tears cutting down her cheeks and onto the pillow. “And I look a mess. How could you feel more than you do?”

Hechler placed his hand under her head and turned it towards him. Her hair felt damp, and he saw a pulse jumping in her throat, so that he wanted to press her tightly against her and forget the hopelessness of it, the drag of the ship around them. He dabbed her face with a corner of the sheet and murmured, “I dare not use my filthy handkerchief!” He saw her staring up at him, her lips parted as he continued quickly, “You do not look a mess. You couldn’t, even if you wanted to.” He touched her face and pushed some hair from her eyes. “And I do like you, more than I should. What chance…”

She touched his mouth with her fingers. “Don’t say it. Not now. The world is falling down about us. Let us hold on to what we have.” She pulled herself closer to him until her hair was against his face.

“You came for me. I shall never forget. I wanted you to know.”

It was more than enough for her, and he could feel the drowsiness coming over her again as if it was his own.

He lowered her to the pillow and adjusted the sheets under her chin. In the adjoining cabin he heard the assistant humming loudly, a warning perhaps that the doctor was on his rounds. Then he bent over and kissed her lightly on the mouth.

A telephone buzzed in the other cabin and he turned to face the door as the white-coated assistant peered in at him.

“The Admiral, sir.”

Hechler nodded and glanced down at her face. She was asleep, a small smile hovering at the corners of her mouth.

Hold on to what we have.

He found he could accept it, when moments earlier he had believed that he had nothing left to hold on to.

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

Clausen crouched over the chart-table and rubbed his eyes to clear away the weariness. It was two in the morning, but he could not sleep, and wanted to make sure he had forgotten nothing. He read slowly through his neatly written notes and paused again and again to check the calculations against his two charts. The ship was quivering violently beneath him, but he had grown used to that. She was steaming at twenty-eight knots, south-east, over an unbroken sea.

On deck it was easier to understand with a ceiling of bright stars from horizon to horizon. Here in the chart-room, it was all on paper. Noon sights, careful estimations of tide, speed and weather. It was vaguely unnerving, with only the chart lights for company, but for a while longer he needed to be alone.

He heard feet scrape against steel and guessed the watch was changing its lookouts yet again. An empty ocean outside, and yet in here you could see the inevitability of the embrace, the savagery of the approaching battle.

It would have to be a salt-water shower. He grinned into his beard. He must be getting soft as well as old. In the merchant service, where owners counted and begrudged every mark spent, you got used to faulty fans, bad food, and machinery that went wrong at the worst moment. It had taken him a long while to the navy, its extravagance at the taxpayers’ expense.

The door slid open and he turned with an angry challenge on his lips. Instead he said, “I’ve been over it all again, sir.” He watched Hechler by the table, his body shining in an oilskin. So he could not sleep either. If I were Captain… he stopped it there. Clausen would not have taken command of a warship if she were ballasted with gold brocks.

Hechler compared the charts. “At this rate, five hours.” He pictured the ocean, their solitary ship heading swiftly on a convergence course. There had been no signals from the Operations Division, and silence in this case meant that the convoy was still on course, heading north-west past Ascension Island. Five hours was too long. He peered closer at the pencilled lines and crosses. To increase speed would dig deeply into their fuel supply. To risk a late confrontation might invite disaster. He said, “Thirty knots.”

Clausen eyed him gravely. The cruiser could go faster, but she was not on sea trials, nor was she within reach of help if something failed.

Hechler smiled. “I have just spoken to the Chief.” He saw him in his mind, cautious as ever, but quite confident. “He agrees.”

Clausen watched him, feeling his disquiet. “And then another rendezvous, sir?”

Hechler glanced at him and smiled. “No, our esteemed Admiral prefers to restock in Buenos Aires, so I’d like you to lay a course for the River Plate, Josef.”

Clausen eyed him in shock. “The last thing the enemy would expect.”

“What you really mean is, another Graf Spee, eh?”

Clausen showed his teeth. “Something like that, sir.” He looked down at the chart and picked up the parallel rulers. “I’ll work on it for a while. An alternative may come in handy.”

Hechler nodded. “We shall be increasing speed in two hours when the watch changes. Let me know what you find.” He paused, one hand on the door clip. “But get some sleep. I depend on you. You know that.”

The door slid shut and Clausen stared at it with quiet astonishment. He both liked and respected the captain, but he had never thought that his feelings were returned. He grinned and looked back at his charts.

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

A few hours later, in the engine-room and adjoining boiler-rooms the men on watch in their blue or white overalls shouted to each other or sang their bawdy songs, all unheard in the roar of machinery. The senior duty engineer officer stood on his shining catwalk beside the little desk with its telephone and log-book. Old Stück would be down again soon. He had led all of them from the moment the first machine parts had been installed in this great hull. And yet he trusted nobody completely when important things had to be executed.

The officer, whose name was Kessler, could feel his shoulders ache as he gripped the rail with his gloved fingers. He felt the ship, too, thundering around and beneath his feet. She was the finest he had known. He grimaced. Down here anyway. What he had heard about their gallant admiral hardly inspired anyone.

The telephone made a puny rattle above the chorus of engines and fans. He pictured Hechler up there in the open bridge, the air and ocean which seemed endless.

He said, “Ready, sir.”

Over his shoulder he heard Stück’s voice and turned to see his figure framed against the bright pipes and dials, almost shining in a fresh suit of overalls.

“The Old Man?”

Kessler glanced at the shivering clock. “Yes, Chief.” Stück was even earlier than usual. But Kessler was glad without knowing why.

Stück leaned against a rail and folded his arms. He could see through the haze of steam and moisture, and his keen ears told him more than any log book.

His eyes came up to the dials above the deck as a bell rattled again, and the three speed and revolution counters swung round with expected urgency. Stück grinned and pretended to spit on his hands. His lips said, “Come on Heinz, feed the beast, eh?” Seconds later, the three great shafts gathered speed, so that even the men on watch had to make certain of a ready handhold.

Stück watched the mounting revolutions. A thoroughbred. Here we go again.

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

No prizes for guessing what's coming next :p

Cheers,

So.... far..... behind..... I want to read these stories :cry:. It's the damned school work! At least I'll have something to look forward to.

Well this time it's a large update, as it took a long time to write the major convoy battle. Hope you enjoy this one!

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Drip…drip...drip. Dietrich Rahn sighed and rolled over in his narrow bunk. The green curtain moved as he shifted position again. U-32 was the leading element in the nine boat strong wolfpack, and Rahn was playing the careful waiting game, imagining the other commanders doing the same thing. The Type 7 U-boat was moving in a slow race-track pattern, waiting in the prime position to attack the convoy.

One of the U-boats was trailing the convoy covertly, and had been kept to extreme range by the strong ASW escort. It confirmed several things to Rahn; this was the fast tanker convoy from the Persian Gulf that the Prinz Luitpold and the wolfpack had been chasing, and Willentrop had been correct in his assessment that wolfpacks would need surface assistance to attack valuable convoys at this stage in the war.

He tried to imagine his friend and mentor in the powerful cruiser. Hechler would be on the bridge now, he thought, the cruiser at full speed as they came out of the darkness and attacked the convoy like hammers from hell. He shivered despite himself. The estimated rendezvous with the convoy was in less than an hour. He frowned to himself; they should have picked the ships up on the hydrophone by now, the conditions were perfect.

Suddenly reaching a decision, he twisted on the bunk, pulling the curtain aside as his legs dropped to the floor. Standing quickly, he donned his jacket and cap and walked briskly across the steel gratings into the control room. At least I look the part, he thought. He nodded to the men on watch before moving over to the narrow chart table. To anyone but the elite group of officers, the chart would look a maze of scribbles, dashed notes and hurriedly jotted calculations. As he cast his eyes over the chart, Rahn noticed the navigator standing beside him.

“Should have heard them by now” he murmured, pulling absently at his beard.

He barely heard the man’s acknowledgement as he moved quickly across the small compartment, his feet rapping sharply on the steel deck plates in the silent U-boat.

“Alter course, steer east. Increase speed to four knots.”

Rahn leaned against the ladder as he heard the electric motors increase in speed. The change of course would bring them closer to the convoy, as any error in their navigation or dead reckoning would have placed them to the west of their projected track. He hoped.

After twenty minutes running, they picked up the distinctive noise of the convoy, and Rahn knew he had been correct to alter position. Unfortunately, they now only had forty minutes to move into position. As they U-boat moved in on a convergence course, he slowly ascended U-32 up through the cold water until they were at Periscope depth. It would reduce hydrophone efficiency, but the convoy was now so close it didn’t make a difference. As time ticked by, they picked up a new sound contact from a completely different direction. Rahn himself had listened to the hydrophone and had heard for himself the distinctive engine noise of a Hipper-class cruiser running at flank speed. Their mis-calculation of position meant they were now on the side of the convoy nearest the Prinz Luitpold.

He climbed into the conning tower and slowly raised the small attack scope up through its housing. There was a strong escort this time, and thoughts of Eva and his little girl made sure he would keep the periscope as close to the waves as possible, and for as short a time as possible. He peered through the viewfinder and slowly moved the handle upwards. Almost as soon as the periscope broke the waves the radar warning receiver lit off, and Rahn knew he would have a very short time to get a surface picture. He quickly scanned the horizon, and five seconds later lowered the periscope back below the waves. Not bad, he thought. The convoy was exactly where he had expected it to be, and he had been surprised that they were within the outer destroyer screen.

Minutes ticked by, and Rahn looked at the clock again. The Prinz Luitpold must be in radar range by now, he thought to himself. Almost as soon as he had said it, there was a dull boom, followed almost instantaneously by a higher pitched explosion. The first explosion had been the unmistakable sound of a torpedo detonation. Quickly raising the periscope again, he took another quick scan. The convoy was much closer now, and he saw the escorts rushing off to the other side of the convoy. As he moved the scope further across the horizon, he saw four double flashes on the horizon, and moments later the shriek of shells and the accompanying explosions. Turning back to the convoy, he should have been stunned by the sight of a tanker exploding close in, but this was not what had grabbed his attention.

The scope revealed a new shape diverging from the lines towards the German cruiser, a sharp white finger of spray flying from under her bow plates. A moment later, there was no doubt in his mind. HMS Valiant, a Queen-Elizabeth class battleship was running fast towards the cruiser, and Rahn knew instantaneously that despite her age, the Valiant’s 15-inch guns would easily overpower the Prinz Luitpold.

He also realised that the periscope had been above the waves for far too long, and a further scan showed a destroyer rushing towards their position. He shouted down the ladder, “Quick, all ahead flank! Alter course, steer three-two-zero degrees. Configure tubes for a four torpedo spread, impact pistols at 5 metres!”

As the submarine lurched with the increase in speed, he heard further dull explosions behind him. The rest of the wolfpack was engaging, but the scope also revealed the massive guns on the British battleship firing their first salvo at the Prinz Luitpold. Rahn’s change in course would enable them to cut off the battleship.

Moments later, Rahn gave the order to fire and the boat shuddered as the torpedoes launched from the tubes. He quickly scanned around again, and saw a destroyer rushing straight towards their position. Quickly ordering a crash dive, Rahn dropped down into the control room, giving a reassuring glance at his crew. Despite his fast dive, they all heard the splash of depth charges dropping close above them, and then a thunderous explosion that hurled the submarine aside. Rahn had grabbed hold of a pipe as he heard the smash of glass, and the terrifying sound of water rushing into the stricken submarine. He ordered the tanks to be blown. He felt a glimmer of hope as the downward motion ease before increasing dramatically. The last thing he remembered was a wall of water rushing towards him and the screaming of crewmen falling silent as the cold sea engulfed them.

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Hechler came out of the dream like a drowning man fighting up for a gasp of air. Even as he propped himself on one elbow and jammed the telephone to his ear he knew what it was. The only surprise was that had been able to sleep at all in the brief one hour rest he had given himself.

It was Froebe. “One hour until the rendezvous, sir.” He sounded cheerful.

Hechler stared around his tiny sea-cabin, his things ready to snatch up, the place in total disorder. “Thank you. You know what to do.” He thought of the wild dream which had been driven away by the telephone’s shrill call. Her nakedness, her desire, the way she had writhed beneath him as if to postpone the conquest.

He said, “I’ll be up shortly.” He hung the phone on its cradle above the bunk and wondering what she was doing now. Just hours ago he had slipped back into the cabin. He could still see it in his mind, just as he had seen it in is dreams. Was she regretting it now? He slid from the bunk and suddenly craved a shower. Even that was too late.

Hechler deliberately stripped to the waist. The narrow door opened slightly and he saw the faithful Pirk peering at him with a steaming bowl of water for his shave. He had understood, but then, Pirk always had. Ice, sunshine, bombardments or dodging enemy aircraft, Pirk’s world ran on quite different lines.

The telephone rang and Pirk handed it to him.

Hechler said, “Captain here.”

This time it was Suhren. “Exercise action stations, sir?” He was still resentful.

“Not yet.” He thought surprisingly of Nelson. “Let them finish their meal. It may be their last for some time.”

Suhren grunted. “Dawn attack, then?”

“Yes. As planned, Viktor. Let me know when the admiral is on his bridge.”

He turned to the mirror and touched his face. As she had done. “It’s going to be a long few hours, my friend.” But Pirk had left. He lathered his cheeks with care and thought of each last detail. The Arados would be prepared, the nine U-boats had reported in, and were on position. Every station and gun-mounting had been checked and visited by a senior officer. The last meal for some time. Forever, if things went badly wrong, but he shook the thought off. There were no heavy escorts with this convoy. He grimaced at his image in the mirror. Like shooting ducks in a barrel.

Moments later Hechler made his way onto the bridge. That last cat-nap had driven the tiredness away. Or was it the prospect of action?

In the predawn darkness figures moved towards him, or held motionless at their positions. As if they had never shifted. It was a beautiful night, bright stars, only just beginning to fade as the first rays of light appeared over the deep, unbroken swell. Clausen had already reported that there may be rain with a south-westerly wind. He never sounded as if he trusted the signalled broadcasts as much as his own intuition.


Hechler said, “Action stations in ten minutes.” He felt in his pockets in case he had forgotten anything. He remembered as he had left the sea-cabin how he had seen Inger’s familiar picture in the drawer. He had looked at it for the first time without feeling, even bitterness.

“Tell the supply officer to keep the galley on stand-by. I ant soup and coffee sent around every section until the last moment.”

A winch clattered loudly and he knew that the first Arado was preparing for launching. If the launch misfired, the plane would be left to fend for itself. He thought of Erika’s aircraft, dismantled and folded into its nest. A last display for the cameras? Or did Leitner have some other scheme in mind?

Clausen stood beside his chair. “Time to increase to full speed, sir.” He sounded calm enough.

“Good.” Hechler peered at his Doxa watch. “Sound off.”

The alarm bells clamoured throughout the ship, followed by a few thuds as the last of the heavy doors were clipped home. Voice-pipes and handsets muttered around the bridge, an unseen army.

“Anton, Bruno, Caesar and Dora turrets closed up, sir!”
“Secondary and anti-aircraft armament closed up, sir!”

From every gun, torpedo and magazine the reports came in. Hechler pictured his men within the armoured hull. Down in the sickbay, Stroheim and his assistants would be waiting, their glittering instruments laid out, waiting for the pain and the pleading.

As it must have been at Coronel and Falklands, at Dogger Bank and Jutland. Hechler jammed his old pipe between his teeth. Trafalgar too probably.

He heard himself ask, “What about Damage Control?”

Froebe replied, “Closed up, sir. Some delay over a lighting fault.”

Suhren was there entrusted with saving the ship if the worst happened. Or taking command if the bridge was wiped out.

“The admiral, sir.”

Leitner’s pale outline glided through the watchkeepers, and Hechler could smell his cologne as he groped his way to the forward part of the bridge. Despite being dressed in his best uniform and a clean shirt, Hechler felt like a stoker standing next to Leitner.

“A good beginning,” Leitner said calmly. “They’ll not forget this day. I want another flag hoisted today. See to it, eh?”

He meant another rear-admiral’s flag. Hechler said, “Ship at action stations, sir.”

“Good. I’m going up to my bridge.”

Hechler watched Leitner walk away, his step jaunty. Hechler looked towards the rising sun, still invisible below the horizon. The stars were much fainter now, the horizon much brighter.

A voice said, “First-degree readiness, sir.”

The galley was shut; the cook and his assistants would be heading away to the damage-control and stretcher stations. Hechler gripped the rail and stared into the darkness. They should hold the advantage with the convoy framed against the dawn. The escort had not been identified, which meant that it was nothing important.

“Port fifteen!” Hechler heard his order repeated, almost a whisper, lost in the clamour of fans, the great writhing bank of foam which surged down either side.

“Steady! Steer zero-four-zero!”

The bows plunged into a deeper trough than normal and the sea boiled up and over the forecastle as if a broadside had fallen silently alongside. As the ship turned, the two big turrets below the bridge trained across the starboard bow. Without turning Hechler knew that the two after ones, Caesar and Dora, were also swinging round in unison, until all eight guns were pointing on the same bearing, the long muzzles like wet glass as they steadied over the side and the great surge of spray.

The sea was still in darkness, so that the leaping crests looked like birds, swooping and falling to appear elsewhere in another guise.

“Admiral’s on his bridge, sir.”

“Very well.” Hechler tightened the towel around his neck as more heavy spray burst over the screen and pattered against their oilskins. He thought of the girl. She had shown no fear, but being sealed below behind the massive watertight doors would test anybody. Somebody whispered and was instantly rebuked by a petty officer.

Hechler kept his binoculars sheltered beneath the oilskin until the last moment to keep them dry. But he had seen what the lookout had whispered to a companion.

“Radar-bridge!”

They all tensed.

Then the speaker continued, “Target in sight. Bearing Green four-five. Range twelve thousand!”

Hechler tugged his cap more firmly across his forehead. The peak was wet and like ice. He stood up and let the spray dash over him as he peered towards the starboard bow. The had found them. Now it was up to Kroll.

“Open fire!”

The paired explosions from the after turrets were deafening, and with the wind thrusting across the starboard quarter, the down-draft of acrid smoke made several of the men duck their heads to contain their coughing fits.
They all heard a dull explosion on the horizon, much deeper than a shell shot, and Hechler knew that the U-boats had also started their attack. He thought of Rahn, and hoped he would be careful. Hechler kept the binoculars on the bearing and watched the tiny pale feathers of spray as the shells fell on the horizon. Harmless, without menace, although he knew that each waterspout would reach masthead level. The explosions sighed through the water and faded again.

The speaker continued, “Estimate twenty two ships in convoy, with eight escorts.”

Froebe called from his bank of handsets, “W/T office reports signals from the enemy, sir.”

“Shoot!” Kroll sounded quite different over the speaker, his words drowned by the immediate response from all four turrets. Hechler imagined the signals beaming away to the enemy’s supporting squadrons and to London. He tensed; a bright flash lit up the horizon and he saw several of the ships for the first time. They looked low and black, but from the spreading glow of fire he could tell their course and speed.

The speaker intoned, “One escort hit. Sinking.”

Hechler could picture the gunnery team’s concentration on the radar-screens. One tiny droplet of light falling out of station. Dropping further astern of the fast tankers. It would vanish from their screens altogether.

The guns roared out again. Surely the tankers would scatter soon? He held his breath as a straddle of shells fell across one of the ships below the horizon. She was instantly ablaze, but it was made more terrible by distance as the fire seemed to spread down from the horizon, like blood running over a dam.

“Shoot!”

Hechler waited and winced as the eight big guns thundered out.

“Slow ahead!” He crossed the bridge and saw a signalman watching him, a handlamp at the ready.

“Now!” The first Arado lifted from the shadows and quickly circled around and above the mastheads.

“Shoot!”

The whole bridge structure shook violently and Hechler had to repeat his order to the engine room to resume full speed. He would launch the second plane if there was time.

Someone was yelling, “Another hit! God, two of them are on fire!”

Dull explosions mixed with the sharper shellbursts and Hechler knew that the U-boats were attacking, wreaking havoc around the convoy.

Hechler moved across the bridge, half listening to the static as the Arado pilot reported back to the ship.

It was a sea of fire. The great shells and torpedoes must have come ripping from the darkness without the slightest warning. He saw a lazy burst of tracer rising from the sea and guessed the Arado pilot was near the convoy. He hoped the pilot had his wits about him.

“Convoy breaking up, sir!” Kroll’s voice cut through the murmur of orders and instructions behind him. He added, “Two lines diverging, sir.”

Hechler lowered his glasses and wiped them with fresh tissue.

“Acknowledge.” He pictured the convoy; they would need no encourage to break away from the murderous barrage. We must close the range.

“Shoot!”

“Cease firing!” It was Kroll but he sounded confused.

Hechler picked up the fire-control handset. “Captain. What is it?”

Kroll must have been leaning away to study his radar; when he spoke he seemed angry, as if he no longer trusted what he saw.

“A ship turned end on, sir. Rear of second line.”

“Wait!” Hechler pushed his way aft and into the tiny steel shack which housed the radar repeater alongside the sonar. He bent over the screen and as his eyes accustomed themselves to the flickering symbols he saw the complete picture as seen by Prinz Luitpold’s invisible eye. The diverging ranks of ships, and then as the scanner swept over them, the motionless blobs of light, ships burning and dying in the spreading flames. Then he saw the isolated echo. A large one which until now had been mistaken for one of the tankers. But it was much bigger and was not standing away, but coming straight for the Prinz. Hechler had to force himself to walk back to the bridge.

“Can you identify it?”

Kroll sounded very wary. “There are no major warships listed with the convoy.”

Hechler turned away. “Carry on. Tell the conning tower to alter course. Steer zero-six-zero!”

The bridge quaked again as the after guns bellowed out, their bright tongues lighting up the now rain-soaked superstructure and funnel. A figure stood out in the flashes and Hechler heard Heyse call, “Captain, sir! Message from Arado pilot! The ship is a battleship!” He hesitated. “HMS Valiant!”

A figure in shining oilskins brushed Heyse aside and Clausen exclaimed, “Steady on new course, sir. Zero-six-zero.” He clung to the safety rail, his body heaving from exertion.

Hechler looked at the large battleship through his glasses. One of the Queen-Elizabeth class. Old battleships from the Great War, they were nevertheless formidable, mounting eight 15-inch guns compared the Prinz Luitpold’s eight 8-inchers. They also had much heavier armour plating and could make 24 knots when pushed. Flashes rippled along the horizon as she fired, and moments later massive waterspouts landed alongside.

Hechler snatched up the handset. “Gunnery Officer! Shift target to the battleship!”

“Immediately, sir!”

The sky seemed to be brightening, although with all the smoky rain it seemed to have taken them by surprise. Hechler watched the exploding shells, the ice-bright columns of water. Then he focussed on the oncoming ship. In her grey paint she looked huge, her elegant lines appreciated by Hechler despite the dangerous situation. She turned to steer towards the heavy cruiser. The next salvo fell right across her path, and Hechler thought she had been hit.

Hechler stared at her dull shadow as he wiped the glass again. They were on a converging course, approaching each other at a combined speed of about sixty miles per hour. Old she might be, but she could still batter the Prinz into smithereens. Spectators would remember this day if they were fortunate to survive.

“Shoot!”

A straddle. The battleship was hidden by falling spray, and at least one shell had smashed into her lightly armoured secondary armament ammunition belts. It was like a glowing red eye on her side.

“Shoot!”

it was a controlled broadside from all four turrets, the heavy shells straddling the massive hull, and blasting one of the tall masts away into the sea, like paper in the wind.

Hechler stood impassively as a great scream of shellfire streaked over the bridge and exploded in the sea, far abeam. Speed was useless now. With her larger armament, the British battleship could hit them form much further range. They had to close the range. The Valiant’s armament was divided as she was pointed straight at the German cruiser, and only her forward turrets could fire. It was all they needed. He bit his lip as Kroll’s next salvo exploded on her waterlight. Smoke erupted, but it was hard to tell it they had penetrated her massive armoured sides. Probably not, he thought.

“Turn to port. We must get all guns engaging!”

A messenger handed him a telephone, his face ashen as a shell screamed past the bridge.

It was Leitner. “What is the matter with you gun crews!” He was almost screaming, and Hechler held the phone further away from his ear. “Kill the battleship! She’s much older than us!”

Hechler ignored him and handed the phone back to a seaman and washed a ripple of flashes reach out from below the battleship’s bridge. They were exposing their entire beam to the battleship now, but Hechler knew that their only chance was to engage with all eight guns. Hechler found himself on the deck as the massive thundering roar of the shell-burst hit below the bridge, and another close in the water alongside the aft part of the hull. A man was screaming, his face cut to ribbons, and Hechler felt dazed, his hearing muffled. Most of the glass screen was in fragments. There was a lot of smoke and he could smell the stench of burning paintwork and cordite, as well as the repulsive smell of burnt flesh.

“Steady on zero-six-zero, sir!” The voice-pipe from the wheelhouse was unattended and Hechler saw a petty officer lying dead against the flag officers. There was not a mark on him, but his contorted face told its own story. Hechler thrust a man in his place.

He slipped on blood as he trained the binoculars on the other ship. He saw a destroyer rushing up to a point alongside the battleship, a thousand yards abeam. What was she doing? Hechler thought madly. Surely she wasn’t about to enter the fight. He watched her drop ten depth charges over the side and all became clear. There was a massive welter of spray, but not white as normal, but a large, dark, oil-laden waterspout that told its own story. A direct hit.

His attention was drawn the battleship as a staggered burst of four explosions engulfed the battleship. In moments she was listing badly, flames bursting from below decks and spreading over the water. The submarine had sacrificed herself to save the Prinz Luitpold. They had been losing the battle, for despite hitting the British warship more, they had barely penetrated her amour. The next salvo had completely wiped out the destroyer, so at least the U-boat had been avenged.

“Gunnery Officer! Switch target to the tankers!”

He heard the acknowledgement as the powerful cruiser headed after the convoy at full speed, the dull explosions on the horizon showing that at least the U-boats were doing some damage whilst the Prinz had been fighting the battleship.

“Engine-room requests permission to reduce speed, Captain!”

“What is it, Chief?” Hechler pressed the phone under his cap.

Stück’s voice was very steady. “The last shells exploded close to the propeller shafts. Nothing we can’t fix, but I need to…”

Hechler didn’t wait for the rest. “Half-speed, all engines.” A massive explosion rolled over the water, and Hechler turned to see fragments of steel and timber raining down over the sea as the ammunition bunkers in the Valiant exploded. Hechler wondered if this was the same end the Barham suffered.

A man cried, “She’s going!”

As the cruiser reduced speed, the convoy drew ahead, and Hechler realised that they couldn’t catch up now. They would have to leave it to the U-boats.

“Secure from action-stations.” He looked up, surprised to sea the sun high in the sky. Had it really been that long? “Give the men a hot meal.” He looked forward, seeing flames still licking below the bridge. That shell-burst had caused a lot of damage.

The smoke had thinned now and Hechler guessed that the fire-fighting parties had doused most of the flames between decks. Voice-pipes chattered incessantly until Froebe shouted, “Damage-control, sir!”

Hechler jammed the telephone to his ear while he watched the dead petty officer being dragged away. The man with the glass-flayed face had already gone; only his blood remained, spreading and thinning in the steady rain.

Suhren said, “A fluke shell, sir.” Someone was screaming in the background. “A shot in a million.”

Hechler watched the smoke spiralling above the broken screen.

“Tell me.”

Suhren explained in his flat, impersonal tone. One of the battleship’s last shells had plummeted down to pierce the battery deck between the bridge and Turret Bruno. As Suhren said, it was a shot in a million. It had stuck the air shaft of a mushroom ventilator and had been deflected through the armoured deck before exploding against a magazine shaft. Twenty men from the damage-control party there had been killed. In such a confined space it was not surprising. But it was a double disaster. The explosion had severely damaged the training mechanism of Turret Bruno. Until the damage could be put right, the whole turret was immobile. It could not even be trained by manual power.

Hechler considered the facts as Suhren described them. The engine-room should have the shafts running at full speed again in the next few hours. Casualties elsewhere were confined to the bridge, and two seamen who had been putting a fire out behind the funnel. They must have been blasted over the side without anyone seeing them go.

“Report to me when you have completed your inspection.”

He swung around as he heard her voice below the ladder. She was escorted to the chair by a seaman, and Hechler rushed over, grasping her hand in his.

“The doctor said it was safe, Dieter. I couldn’t stay below, not after…”

He nodded as she trailed off, understanding her fear, not being able to see anything as the crashing broadsides had thundered out, and then the explosions as the battleship’s shells had hit them.

Froebe whispered, “The admiral, sir.”

Leitner seemed to materialise on the bridge like a white spectre as Hechler stepped away from Erika.

“What the hell is happening?” He glared through the trapped smoke, his shoulders dark with rain. “I am not a bloody mind reader!”

Hechler looked at him coldly. “B Turret is out of commission, sir. We’ve lost thirty-two men killed, and five injured.” He glanced at the blood, aware of her watching him behind him. The blood had almost being washed away. “One man was blinded.”

“I do not hear you! What are you saying?” Leitner strode from one side to the other, his shows crunching over broken glass. “We have lost the convoy – don’t yo understand anything?”

Hechler looked up as Froebe called, “New course is two-three-zero, sir.”

Hechler said, “We have to turn, sir. Radar reports five escorts sunk, and eight tankers. The U-boat’s are still attacking, and more will be drawn in now.”

“I don’t care!” Leitner was beside himself with rage, and did not even notice the astonished watchkeepers around him. “Eight tankers! A pin*****! We should have taken the whole convoy.”

Froebe waited for Leitner to rush to the opposite side of the bridge before saying, “Steady on two-three-zero, sir. All engines half-speed ahead.”

Leitner was suddenly facing him, his face streaming with rain. “What was that? Am I to be told nothing by these idiots?”

Hechler kept his voice even as he replied, “The information will doubtless have been sent to your bridge, sir.” He tried to keep his patience, when all he really wanted to do was discover how badly the Prinz was damaged and reassure Erika.

Leitner thrust his face so close he could smell the brandy. “I don’t want your snivelling excuses! We have been defeated!”

Hechler stood back, sickened. “It was a risk. We knew it. It might have been worse.”

“Worse? Worse?” Leitner waved his arm at the bridge. “I don’t see that! A relic of a battleship stood against the Prinz Luitpold, with half her armament unable to bear, and because of someone’s incompetence we had to withdraw! By God, Hechler, I’ll not be a laughing stock because of it! Do you know what I call it?”

Hechler pressed his hands to his sides. He wanted to hit Leitner, to keep on hitting him. A laughing stock, was that all he saw in it? Men killed, and his fine ship isolated and at bay because of his haphazard orders.

“I call it cowardice! In the face of the enemy – what do you thick of that?”

“I can only disagree.”

“Can you indeed.” He stared around the bridge. “There are some who will live long enough to regret this day!” He stormed off the bridge and Froebe hissed, “I’m no coward, damn him!”

Hechler ignored him. He gave the orders, his voice strained with rage. “Recall the Arado. Tell W/T to monitor every signal. We have raised a hornet’s nest.” He looked around, surprised, as sunlight broke through the dull clouds and Erika’s concerned gaze. “And I want the navigating officer here at once.”
Leitner was unstable in his unstable mood. All he could think of was their failure to destroy the whole convoy, the effect it might have on his own reputation. He had made it quite clear that all the blame would rest elsewhere. On the Captain’s shoulders, no doubt. Hechler was quietly surprised that the realisation did not touch him.

Clausen emerged on the bridge, and Hechler turned towards him. “The River Plate, Josef. See to it, eh?”

Hechler turned rapidly as a messenger appeared on the bridge, his eyes wild. “Signal from the U-boats, sir. They report ten tankers sunk and six escorts for two U-boats.” He hesitated. “They sunk U-1046 and U-32, sir.”

Hechler turned away abruptly, his ears roaring a cold feeling settling into his stomach. He walked out onto the port bridge wing, resting his hands on the rail. He knew that it had been Rahn that destroyed the Valiant; it couldn’t have been anybody else. Poor old Rahn, faithful to his mentor till the day he died. Hechler spared a thought for his wife and child in Holland. He would have to try and contact them if he reached Germany again. He barely noticed his knuckles turning white, or the pain lancing through his arms as he gripped the rail tightly.

He looked down as he felt a hand grasp hold of his wrist. “I am sorry, Dieter. I know you were very close to him.” She hesitated, and then continued. “I met him when he came aboard the ship. He was a fine man.”

Hechler took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He looked at her, and then smiled weakly. “Thank you. Yes, he was a fine man. He will be greatly missed.” He squeezed her hands once before walking back across the bridge to the chart table. He would have time to grieve later, the Prinz needed him now.

He would go around the ship as soon as the Arado had been hoisted inboard. With more and more enemy ships being directed towards either the broken convoy, or their estimated position, they would need all their eyes to avoid discovery. He felt utterly drained. Yet he must inspect the immobilised turret, see his heads of department, and bury their dead. He knew his men would and could fight again. He pictured Leitner’s insane fury and felt a sudden anxiety.



The legend and the luck were no longer enough.

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I'm currently working on a single mission for that battle, and you are in Rahn's position, trying to save the Prinz. I'll post the link up here when it's done.

Cheers,

will we be able to put Leitner in a tube and launch him at the Valiant? :arrgh!:

Unfortunately, no, because he's on the Prinz Luitpold rather than Rahn's U-32. However much I would like to condemn him to a watery grave, it just isn't possible.

I suppose you could imagine that he's in the Arado search plane, surface and shoot him down, but I suppose it would be a questionable idea to surface in front of a pissed off battleship, but by all means try :D

Cheers for reading guys, and the mission is coming along well.

As long as the aircraft is hostile, I'll finish it off when I've sunk the convoy!

Sorry for the long delay this time, but it was my 18th last weekend and I let the schoolwork pile up. Unfortunately I can't seem to get the single mission to work, but maybe someone else can make one if they like. Here's the next installment with more action but of a different kind! Enjoy :D

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Leitner looked up from his littered desk and eyed Hechler for several seconds.

“You wish to see me?”

Hechler nodded. He wondered how Leitner could leave the upper bridge to spend time in his spacious quarters. The cabin was unusually chaotic, with clothes strewn about, and a lifejacket hung on the door. He said, “We have just buried the men who were killed, sir.”

Leitner pouted, “Yes. I felt the ship slow down.” Some of the old edge returned to his tone. “Not that she’s exactly a greyhound of the ocean at the moment!”

“The engine-room expects the pumps will be back at full pressure soon, and we should be able to make full speed shortly after that.” They had said that yesterday, but this time Stück seemed quite confident. “It’s Bruno turret that worries me.”

“You? Worry?” Leitner put down his pen and regarded him calmly. “After their performance with the convoy I’d have thought the whole gunnery team should be worried!”

It was pointless to argue, to explain that not only had the Prinz matched guns with a battleship, but the last shell had been a fluke, and the damage to the engine-room was only to be expected in a fierce battle. Anyway, Leitner seemed so preoccupied that he would only have challenged that too.

“Now, Dieter, let us go over the plans for Argentina.” He dragged a chart from below a piece of paper.

Hechler bent over the desk. Why go over it again? All he could see were the lines of flag-covered bodies, the rain sheeting down while he had read the burial service. Then the signal to the bridge to reduce speed, the last volley of shots, and the seamen rolling up the empty flags for the next time. Faces and groups lingered in his mind, like little cameos of war itself. A young seaman wiping his eyes with his sleeve and trying not to show his grief at the loss of a friend. The camera team filming the funeral, a petty officer staring at them, his eyes filled with hatred and disgust. Leitner should have been there too. It was the least he could do. And he had seen the girl too, her coat collar turned up as she had gripped a stanchion below two manned anti-aircraft guns and watched him, listening to his words as he had saluted, and the pathetic bundles had splashed over the side.

Hechler had been kept busy with hardly a break. Now, in the sealed cabin it was like a blanket. He was dog-tired at a time when he needed to be at full alert. Somewhere overhead an Arado was testing its engine. They were off the shipping lanes, and as far as Bauer’s telegraphers had been able to determine, all enemy forces had been directed to the convoy or further north. OKM Operations Division had been silent, as if the Prinz Luitpold had already been written off as a casualty, left to her own resources.

Leitner did not look up from the chart, and some of his sleek hair fell forward like a loose quill. It was so unlike him that Hechler wondered if the last engagement had broken his faith. He was suddenly sickened by the man in front of him. Hechler stood upright again and said, “I must attend to my ship, sir.”

Hechler walked out onto the open deck. He despised the admiral and his inconsistent behaviour, his malice and instability. But more by Leitner’s uncertainty, as if he had been given a weapon he suspects is faulty. Maybe it was just as well they were heading for Argentina, and not attempting to fight their way back to Germany.

“You walk alone, Dieter?”

She stepped from behind the same gun-mounting, her cheeks glowing from both wind and rain. Her injury seemed to have completely healed, and Hechler could scarcely believe it was only a week ago that she had been hit.

He faced her and wanted to fold her in his arms, forget everything but this moment. “I need to talk, Erika.” He knew that some of the seamen were watching him. Alone within a crowd.

“I know.” She gripped his arm. “I was afraid.” She shook her head so that her damp hair bounced on the fur collar. “No, not of war, or the fighting and dying. But afterwards. I thought you might think it was a momentary lapse, a need that we both shared, but only for a moment.” She gripped him more tightly. “I want you for myself.”

He smiled down at her, the other faces and figures fading into distance. “I shall never give you up.” He turned as a messenger bustled up to them and saluted. “From the bridge, sir. The engine-room can give full speed now.” His eyes flickered between them.

“Tell the bridge to wait. I am coming up.” He looked at the girl’s eyes, hung on to what he saw, needing her to believe him, to trust him, no matter what happened.

He said, “I love you, Erika.” The he stepped back and saw the way she lifted her chin. It was as if they had both found a strength they had not previously recognised. As he vanished up the ladder to the bridge she whispered aloud, “And I you, dearest of men.”

The deck began to tremble and she watched the wash rise up alongside as once again the bows smashed into the sea as if they despised it. She walked slowly below the high bridge structure as saw the black hole where the shell had plunged through to explode between decks. It was all so unreal to see and feel the enemy right here amongst them. She thought of Hechler’s features as he had read the burial service, his strong voice raised above the laboured roar of fans, and the hiss of rain across the armour plating. She smiled sadly. The iron pirate. She could not see more than a day ahead, and she guessed that most of her companions felt the same way. But after this precious moment she knew she would find him again, and that she could love nobody else.

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

Acting-Commodore Pembroke walked further out on the starboard side of Renown’s bridge and fastened his duffle coat more tightly around him. The rain was getting heavier, and the seas had picked up again as they had travelled further south. They could do without it, he thought.

He looked through one of the clearview screens and watched the long arrowhead of the battle-cruiser’s forecastle begin to shine through the darkness. It would be dawn soon, Pembroke thought as he slowly rubbed his hands together to restore circulation. Since receiving the signal to proceed to Cape Town the aged battle-cruiser had broken down yet again, and three harrowing days were spent motionless on the sea whilst their escorts circled to prevent U-boat attack. Instead of reassuring the Renown’s company, their circling consorts had only served to remind them that the fatal salvo of torpedoes could arrive at any minute, with no warning.

Then, two days later, as they had been steadily steaming towards the South African naval port, another signal had arrived. The Prinz Luitpold was attacking the big tanker convoy, and Pembroke had listened to the reports as they had come in, scarcely believing it when news of HMS Valiant’s sinking reached him. Lots of signal traffic had arrived then. There had been reports of sunk tankers and U-boat sinkings as well as lots of signals from London.

Pembroke’s small squadron was the only available unit to track down the powerful German raider, and with ‘Force M’ covering to the north, it was unlikely the Prinz Luitpold would escape to the north. ‘Force M’ consisted of a big carrier and a couple of battleships with all the escorts and support they needed.

Now, three days after the convoy battle, Pembroke was leading his ships at a steady speed to cut off the cruiser’s most likely route. Pembroke had spent many hours in the chartroom with his officers, and the general consensus had been that the only route open to the Prinz was to sail for the River Plate. It would be the Graf Spee all over again, he thought.

Since being assigned their new orders, Pembroke’s small squadron had remained closed up at action stations. Exciting, exhilarating, it was much more than either, he thought. Gone was the boredom and the nagging suspicion that the German raider was still alive. For two days they had pounded through the heavy ocean swell, gun crews exercising without the usual moans. This time it was in earnest.

Pembroke could picture his ships clearly despite the darkness. The Devonshire was half a mile astern, while the light cruiser Christchurch was way ahead in the van. If the German’s radar was as good as the experts implied, it was better to have the smallest ship in the lead. The Prinz Luitpold was a powerful and formidable opponent, but they would dart in to close the range, singly, while the others maintained covering fire to halve the enemy’s resources. Pembroke thought of the German’s radar, and how he wished the Renown had similar equipment. He thought of their old Walrus flying boat, the Shagbat as it was affectionately known in the navy. One engine, a pusher at that, with a ridiculous maximum speed of 130 odd miles per hour. But it only needed one sighting report, and the ancient Walrus could do that just as well as any first rate bomber.

Pembroke glanced at the bridge staff. The first lieutenant and officer-of-the-watch, the navigating officer, two junior subbies, and the handful of experts, signalmen and the like. As good a ships company as you could find anywhere, he decided. He walked over to the steel bridge chair and sat down, watching as the dawn light slowly explored the battle-cruiser’s superstructure. Yes, he decided. They would be ready when they brought the Prinz Luitpold to action. Nothing could take it away from him now.

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

Hechler stood by the port bridge rail, his oilskin wrapped tightly around him. The sea was heavier now, the tops of the swell lined with foam, and every other wave the Prinz Luitpold’s long bow would bury into the wave, sending spray over the bridge. The wind had been steadily increasing for the last few hours, and the weather was rapidly changing from the pleasantly warm and benign conditions they had been experiencing. It would soon be dusk as well, and Hechler was worried by the rapid change in weather.

It had been four days since the fight with the Valiant, and for the last two the engines had been working at full speed, driving the heavy cruiser southwest towards the River Plate estuary and safety. They had received only one further signal from OKM Operations. Apparently, there was a small British squadron to the north of them acting as the main search party. Leitner had told him that it consisted of the old battle-cruiser, Renown, and a couple of cruisers. Hechler believed that they would reach Buenos Aires before them, even if his heart was telling him to fight.

Leitner had been another worry. Apart from the meeting to discuss the signal, he had remained in his cabin, and Pirk had reported that the Admiral was taking more drink as well. Hechler’s mouth drew into a thin line. If that was true, then they were all in for squalls, he thought.

He looked around the bridge, ducking as another bout of spray burst over the rail. The watch-keepers were all busy, and Hechler could see the grim expression of Clausen in the small chart-room as he tapped a barometer and made notations on the chart. Suhren stood moodily over the other side of the bridge. Sitting in the steel bridge-chair was Erika Franke, wrapped up in another large oilskin. Her auburn hair was blowing in the wind, and she smiled under his scrutiny.

Hechler turned away as Clausen moved over to him, his face set in a frown.

“I don’t like it, sir. That warm period we had before, and now this steady increase in windspeed – they show all the signs of a cyclone. The barometer’s dropped 10 millibars in the last two hours.”

Hechler looked out to the horizon in front of the ship. There were large, deep black clouds, and it did look a lot like a cyclonic depression. From the rate at which the barometer was falling, this could turn out to be a violent storm. He walked briskly over to the rack of telephone on the aft wall of the bridge.

“Chief? Captain. Reduce speed, please. Set revolutions for 15 knots, and tell your men to hold on. It looks like we’re in for a blow, and we don’t want any injuries, eh?”

He put the phone down carefully and turned back to face the sea again. The waves were already larger, and a steady drizzle had started. The signs looked ominous.

He walked over to the spot where Suhren was standing and spoke quietly. “Viktor, it looks as if we’re in for a heavy blow. Take some men and take a look around the ship for me. Especially the anchors.”

Suhren nodded and walked away, motioning for a couple of seamen to follow him. The rain was starting to fall in larger drops, and Hechler could see the waves were almost all covered by white spray as they crested. The wind howled around the open bridge, and the motion had picked up further. He moved over to the girl and grasped her hand.

“It’s going to get quite rough and wet up here before long, Erika. Are you sure you want to stay up here?”

She nodded, her eyes moving away to glance at the heaving sea. At the reduced speed, the Prinz was taking less water onboard, but the motion was much greater, each wave creating a long rolling motion in addition to the pitching of the bow as the rollers came across their quarter.

Leitner emerged onto the bridge, his expression grave. “Why have we reduced speed?” His voice was icy.

Hechler stepped towards him. “We’re headed straight for a storm, sir. At the present rate, we looked to be heading straight for the centre, and I reduced speed for better control. I’d also like to request that we alter course away to the north to try and bypass it.”

“No, I don’t think that wise.” Leitner had turned away, his voice calm and even. “There’s a pursuing British squadron to the north, and you are ordered to sail this ship to Buenos Aires. Increase to full speed again.”

“Sir, I must prot…”

“At once, Captain!”

Hechler turned away and nodded at Froebe to see to it. Leitner moved across to the back of the bridge, glancing at the chart as he clung to a pipe to keep balance. His face was impassive once again, and Hechler could scarcely believe only moments before he had been shouting.

A few minutes later Suhren climbed back onto the bridge, his oilskins running with water and his face red from the wind and spray. He clung to a stanchion as he reported, ignoring Leitner’s snort at the back of the bridge. Hechler had ordered a change of hands, and now the whole ship was closed up for the storm and the best hands on the vital stations. Hechler had ordered a Chief Petty Officer onto the wheel, unseen below, yet the intercom relayed his messages. In the short time Suhren had been away, the weather had deteriorated rapidly and the seas picked up further, Clausen had reported that the barometer was now ready 962 millibars, and still falling rapidly. Windspeed was estimated at well above 60 knots now, and the average wave height was over 10 metres.

Outside the bridge it was almost completely dark, and only the careering wave crests marked any division between sea and cloud. The rain was sheeting down now. Hechler clung to the side of the bridge chair and watched as the forecastle disappeared under a thunderous cascade of water, and felt the deck sliding away beneath him, the screen misting over in a distorted mirage of grey and white. He could feel the bruise on his hip where the pressure of the unyielding steel had grated against him as time after time the cruiser had slid almost beam on into a steep trough, only to emerge shaking and corkscrewing for the next onslaught.

He had lost all sense of time, his attention gripped by his efforts to keep the ship under control and on course. The men around him were mere shadows now, with the occasional face picked out by a compass light or the radar repeater. He turned towards the vague shadow of the admiral.

“Sir, I must request that we alter course at least thirty degrees to starboard to keep the ship under control. If we don’t we could broach to in these seas.”

After a pause, Leitner’s voice came back. “Very well, but only until the storm abates.”

Hechler turned back with relief and watched as the bow clawed round in the heaving water until they were taking the seas at an angle of around twenty degrees. There was still a corkscrewing motion, but no longer were they lying exposed in a trough, beam on to a large wave. Every member of the bridge crew was clipped into place by a lifeline, and the whole structure was repeatedly doused with water. He looked at the girl, and noticed that she seemed to be taking it well. He squeezed her hand reassuringly and grinned as she looked at him.

“A thoroughbred! She can take this easily.” He turned away and almost fell as the deck swooped and the staggered from under him.

He heard the helmsman shouting, “She’s paying off, sir! Three-two-zero; Three-three-zero; Three-four-zero!” His voice was strained with terror, and Hechler could imagine his fear inside the heavy steel wheelhouse.

Hechler turned his head towards the compass gyro. “Half astern starboard engine!” He used both arms to hold on as the deck leaned over still further and men fell headlong across the bridge in a confused, shouting tangle where their lifelines had gone slack.

“Starboard engine half-astern, sir!”

It seemed suddenly quiet beyond the steel sides of the bridge, and Hechler realised with sick horror that the ship, his ship, was lying in the confines of a deep trough, being pushed along and over by the force of one great, towering roller. Fascinated he watched the roller’s crest start to crumple, heard Froebe gasp behind him as with the force of an avalanche the great mass of water crashed down on the ship’s exposed side

The helmsman yelled again, “I can’t hold her, sir! She won’t answer!”

“Put the starboard engine to full astern! Emergency!” Hechler’s voice sounded unnaturally loud in the imprisoned stillness of the trough.

The hull shook savagely as the screws fought against sea and rudder to bring the stem around.

A seaman sobbed, “She’s goin’! Oh Jesus, she’s goin’ right under!”

No-one answered, but as one more great wave battered against the listing hull the helmsman croaked, “She’s coming, sir!” The gyro ticked round. “Three-three-five; Three-three-zero.”

“Get ready!” Hechler laid his hand on that of the mesmerised seaman at the telegraph. “Now! Full ahead starboard!”

As the bows slewed sluggishly above the creaming wall of water the noise and violence came back as savagely as ever. Hechler’s voice seemed to calm everybody as he spoke evenly, “Steer Three-zero-zero directly at the waves. That should give better steerage way for a bit.”

Clausen clawed his way round the bridge and shouted above the wind, “The bottom had dropped out of the glass. We’re heading almost straight to the storm centre, for God’s sake! It’s reading 952 millibars now!”

Hechler griped the rack of telephones as the bow climbed steeply up another unbroken roller. Up, up, until the long stem seemed to be pointing at the skudding clouds like a shining black arrowhead. Then as the roller broke and roared down either beam he felt the forepart of the ship drop sickeningly into the waiting trough, and pitied the men crammed in the dripping messdecks as they were plummeted some forty feet before smashing into the solid force of water below.

One of the telephones buzzed and a rating called, “Engine-room for you, sir.” He handed it to Hechler and used both hand to hold himself to a fire extinguisher as the bow lifted towards the next leaping wave crest.

“Captain.” Hechler held on tightly with one hand as the other kept the telephone to his ear. He listened as Stück’s voice filled his ear.

“Captain, it’s the starboard shaft, the one that was damaged by the shell-burst. There’s a bearing running hot in the starboard shaft, in the after gland space!”

“Can you keep it running at full speed? We need everything we’ve got to climb these waves and the Admiral won’t alter course in case we meet the British squadron. What can you give me, Chief?”

Stück’s voice rose as he replied quickly. “It’s the after bearing, don’t you understand? It might be a blocked oil-pipe, and if I can’t fix it the whole shaft will seize up solid as a bloody rock!”

“Hell. Very well, Chief. Stand-by. I’ll reduce speed once we’ve turned.”

Hechler turned back towards Leitner, placing the handset back down on the handle. “Sir, we must alter course immediately.”

“What the hell are you talking about? The motion is much easier like this, isn’t it?” His face was red with anger. “Out of the question!”

“Sir, there’s a bearing running hot in the starboard shaft. If we don’t alter course and reduce speed, it could seize up solid. We need full speed to take these waves head on. Our only choice is to head north and reduce speed.”

“Like hell we do, Hechler! There’s a British squadron to the north, and they’ll sink us if we meet them.”

“Sir, we’re heading into the centre of the storm. If we don’t alter course we’ll be far deeper far quicker than any warship could sink us. We must alter course!” Hechler was suddenly aware of the silence on the bridge despite the roaring of the sea. Almost everyone on the bridge was watching the confrontation and Hechler could see Erika looking on with wide eyes.

Leitner was screaming now. “I don’t care! May I remind you, Captain, that your duty is to follow my orders! Kindly do as I say!”

Hechler turned around, his voice icy. “My duty, Admiral, is the safety of my crew and my ship, and only after that am I at liberty to follow your wise orders. I will be turning this ship out of the path of the storm with or without your consent!”

As Hechler moved awkwardly across the deck and watched as Froebe swallowed hard as the ship plunged forwards and down, his eyes fixed on the incoming sea as it rushed aft along the forecastle and leapt high over the gun mounting. Hechler saw his lips moving, as if he were counting seconds, willing the bows to reappear. It seemed to take a long time, as though the starboard shaft was already labouring, the ship starting her plunge to the bottom.

He turned and peered through the screen as a dull boom echoed dismally above the hiss of bursting spray. The bows lifted, staggered, then plunged headlong through another breaking roller and the same sound repeated itself. It was like a giant oildrum being beaten with a bar of iron. It must be the anchor, Hechler thought, despite Suhren’s crew securing them.

He looked about the bridge. “Werner, the anchor’s coming loose. Take Heyse and some men and secure it before it stoves the plates in.” As Froebe made to move he added quickly, “Don’t move until I’ve turned the ship. That way you’ll be afforded some shelter.”

He saw Froebe nod and head below to gather a party of men together, and turned back to the bridge.

“We’ll let the sea do the work for us. I shall turn to starboard. Be ready to go half astern on the starboard engine.” He heard the orders repeated through a handset.

Boom. The sound jarred the strained minds of everyone on the bridge.

Hechler said. “Starboard fifteen. Starboard engine half astern.”

The ship had barely started to turn before she reeled wildly across an advancing wall of water and began to topple drunkenly on to her beam. Pieces of gear tore loose and clattered through the bridge, and somewhere below a man cried out in sudden terror.

Hechler clenched his teeth. “Increase to twenty. Starboard engine full astern!”

The next careering wave hit the exposed bow and thrust the ship hard over, the deck angling so steeply that from his position jammed against the starboard scuttles Hechler found he was staring straight down into the frothing water alongside. Another few degrees and the hull would capsize completely. He found that he could accept it. Was even able to breathe. Then through the leaping spray he saw a piece of broken guardrail and knew the ship was coming upright again. He felt the fierce pressure against his chest and thighs easing and barked, “Half ahead both engines. Wheel amidships!” He rubbed the screen with his sleeve. “Steady now! Steady!”

The helmsman, Zimmer, said, “Steady, sir. Course zero-two-zero.” He cursed softly to meet a sudden challenge from the sea, and added grimly, “She’s holding it, sir.”

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

Froebe walked off the bridge and stumbled across a seaman trying to blow up a lifejacket. He was not alone. There seemed to be dozens of dark shapes jammed everywhere, their orange lifejackets giving them a strange anonymity. He thrust his way between them, saying nothing. It was useless to tell sailors it was pointless to climb to the highest point in a ship when they were terrified beyond reason. It had been bad enough on the bridge, but to the men off watch and imprisoned with a reeling, creaking hull it must have been a living hell.

He found Heyse and the men huddled together below the bridge, their faces showing occasionally as a torch flashed amongst them. Beyond the watertight door he could hear the sea sluicing along the deck, the boom of the anchor like a curfew bell.

Heyse looked at him and said, “Thanks for coming down.” He sounded as if he was shivering.

Another voice spoke beside him. “I’ve got a new slip fixed up and ready, sir.” It was Petty Officer Lehman, the chief bosun’s mate. He seemed unperturbed. “And I’ve got two good leading hands below ready to break the cable.”

Froebe nodded. Lehman needed no telling. It was useless to try and secure the anchor. The great weight of water must have moved something just enough to allow the anchor to slip clear of the hawse pipe. Now, suspended on its shackle it was swinging against the plating each time the ship plunged. If it stove the bows in the sea would do the rest, bulkheads or no bulkheads.

Heyse said, “It’ll have to be fast.” He cleared his throat. “I…I’ll go first.”

Lehman chuckled. “We’ll both go, sir.” He jabbed the two seamen behind him. “Jurgen and Hans, take the wire strops. Rehman, hold onto the lifeline. When I rap the deck with my hammer, the lads below will break the joining shackle and we’ll do the rest, right?”

They nodded. One of the seamen asked thickly, “What if we get caught by one of those big waves, Jens?”

Lehman grinned. “Don’t you worry, Hans. Your old woman will get her pension a bit earlier, that’s all!” Then sharply he added, “Right lads. Let’s get that bloody door open!”

Now that the ship had turned her stern towards the great following sea it was surprisingly sheltered below the bridge. Cautiously, feeling their way along a lifeline the men groped towards the gun mountings and around it where they paused beneath the great muzzles of Turret Anton.

Froebe pulled himself to the front of the crouching figures and peered towards the stem. The ship seemed to be making hardly any headway at all, but that was merely because her speed was almost matched by that of the pursuing waves. The deck was still vibrating fiercely, and he knew Zimmer would be watching and feeling his wheel, ready to warn Hechler the instant he lost steerage way. It that happened the ship could broach to, or be pooped and driven under before Hechler could get more speed.

The bows dipped slowly and he saw the spray feathering back through the bullring and spurting over the crumpled guardrail.

He said, “Now!”

While the bows lifted wearily again they dashed forward along the slippery deck, clinging to the single wire stay which spelt life or death for all of them.

Lehman threw himself astride the port cable shouting, “This one never was any bloody good!” He laughed into the spray as he held up a piece of metal. “Sheered off like a carrot!”

The deck canted again and more water swept over them choking their cries and curses, blinding them until the bows fought free once more. All the time Lehman was busy with his slip and his strops whilst Rehman controlled his movements with the rest of the lifeline.

Lehman rapped his hammer on the deck and shouted; “Now we’ll see!”

The cable groaned and stiffened as the steel slip took the strain. He banged twice on the deck, and from below they heard the sudden rasp of metal and then an answering signal. Lehman yelled, “Thank God that worked!”

Froebe jerked the wire stay. “Get back, the rest of you! Lehman will knock off the slip!” He saw Heyse’s face close by his arm, pale and staring. “Got to judge the right moment!”

He made himself wait, knowing that Lehman was having difficulty in holding on. But knock off the slip too soon and the anchor would smash through the hull long before it could drop clear.

The bows started to dip and he yelled, “Slip!”

Lehman leapt clear and swung his hammer, ducking into Froebe’s arms as with a growling roar the short length of cable trundled along the deck and then vanished through the hawse pipe.

Lehman clung to the two officers, his face split into a huge grin. “That’ll give some poor fish a headache!”

They struggled aft along the wire towards the gun mounting, half blinded, and almost deafened by the wind in their faces.

Heyse yelled, “Never thought it had taken so long.” He was half laughing, half sobbing. “Be daylight soon!”

Froebe peered past him and then froze. The pale line etched against the cloud was not the dawn. It was the thin crest of the greatest wave he had ever seen. It stretched away on either quarter until it was lost from view and seemed higher than the masthead.

He shouted, “Run for the guns! Quick!”

The wave came on, lifting the stern higher and higher until it was tearing forward and down like a surfboard. Had it broken it would have smashed the ship apart, but as it reached the bridge it seemed to stagger and break into several gigantic waves of equal size and ferocity.

Froebe saw the nearest one lifting above the port rail, so tall that it was like something solid. He watched it curve inboard and felt the ship slew heavily to one side as the full force of it exploded against the foot of the bridge before thundering forwards towards the bows.

His breath was being pushed from his lungs. It was like being buried alive, and in the blind maelstrom of sea and noise he could hear himself shouting, his words choked by salt water as it swept over him, dragging at his sodden body, tearing at his fingers as he fought to hold on. Then it was past, and as he struggled painfully against the gun mounting he realised that he was alone.

He reeled round the streaming steel and saw a crumpled figure poised right on the edge of the deck, draped around a buckled stanchion like a discarded puppet. He reached it and dragged desperately at the man’s coat. It was Heyse, and as he hauled him back over the side he heard him gasp, “Lehman! He’s here!”

Froebe saw two seamen dashing from below the bridge to seize Heyse’s body, and as he lowered himself to the side again he found Lehman directly below him, his hands locked into a drooping piece of guardrail like two pale claws. Froebe felt someone holding his legs, and reached down to seize the petty officer’s wrists with all his strength.

Lehman croaked, “Bloody fine thing! My leg’s busted!”

Froebe adjusted his grip and called back to them men behind him, “Pull us inboard, lads!” It was then that he saw the next wave coming down the side of the hull towards him. This time he heard nothing at all, but was conscious of the overwhelming, choking water, and the fact that Lehman’s wrists were slipping through his fingers. He knew he was trying to shout to him even though his lungs seemed full of water. Knew too that Lehman was staring up at him, watching him, knowing that he was going to die. He thought he too was dying, for even as the two cold hands slipped away so did his senses. Then there was nothing.

When he opened his eyes it took him several minutes to grasp what had happened. There was a light burning on the opposite bulkhead, and everything was white. He moved his cracked lips and tried to laugh. He saw Hechler looking down at him, and Stroheim next to him.

“Take it easy, Werner. You had a rough time of it.”

It was coming back now. Fast and terrible. He asked quietly, “Lehman?”

Hechler looked down at him under the light, his expression sad. “You did your best. Couldn’t be helped.”

Froebe closed his eyes. They seemed to be *****ing him. He noticed that the motion around him was easier, and through the hull he could hear the sea pounding more evenly. He gripped the sheet tightly. It sounded pleased with itself.

He asked, “How long have I been out?”

Stroheim replied as Hechler had already left to go back to the bridge. “Five hours. I had to do it. You were trying to get back on deck.”

Froebe looked at him emptily. “I don’t remember anything about it.”

“Just shock, Werner.” Stroheim studied him carefully. “Quite normal.”

“Not for Lehman it wasn’t.” He wanted Stroheim to follow Hechler and leave him in peace to readjust his mind.

“I know. However, but for you, young Heyse would be gone too.”

Froebe turned his face away. He could feel the sleep returning, and when he closed his eyes he could picture it quite clearly. Like smoke advancing across the sea’s face.

Stroheim watched him until he fell asleep and then left him in peace, unconsciously listening to Froebe’s wishes.

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


As for the rest of the story, there'll only be a couple more installments at most, so stay tuned for the next update. Thanks for reading this far!


Cheers,

Excellent work; very enjoyable! I'm going to have to cut and paste it all into a document so I can print it off for reading. It puts my patrol blog to shame, haha! Keep up the good work.
:up:

The level of excellence goes from one height to the next with each instalment :rock: