An Honorable German (16 page)

Max clasped his hands behind his back in the relaxed posture of a strolling father. “Talk to me, Felix. We’re supposed to
be the proud parents of a wonderful baby.”

“Why do I have to be the woman, Herr Oberleutnant?”

“Because you’re slight like a woman.”

Felix said nothing. He set his mouth and stared down at their wooden baby, swaddled in a pink blanket.

That was the problem with these sailors on
Meteor
. Seekriegsleitung had expected the raider to have a short life, so they manned her with the sweepings of the Kriegsmarine.
But their assumption had proven wrong; the ship had already survived for thirteen long months. Thirteen months at sea was
a difficult achievement for a crew that possessed the dash and polish of
Graf Spee
’s men, but it was impossible to expect a second-rate crew to be out so long, never sighting land, never being with a woman,
never getting drunk. Their only pleasure came once a week when the bosun issued each man two bottles of Japanese beer brought
along with their other supplies by
Dresden
; the original store of Beck’s was drunk long ago. Only Captain Hauer’s iron discipline had kept the men under control.

“Look, Felix, a porpoise.”

Felix didn’t bother to look. “I’ve seen enough porpoises to last me a lifetime, Herr Oberleutnant.”

What could he talk to this surly youngster about? They had to keep their lips moving so that from a distance they would genuinely
appear to be a Japanese couple on a stroll. Max knew that on the other ship, in this case a British merchantman five kilometers
off their bow, several pairs of binoculars would be on them. Hauer nudged
Meteor
on a slowly converging course with the freighter. If they could get within two kilometers before their ruse was discovered,
the Brits would be under their guns and have no choice but to heave to with no wireless transmitting.

But two kilometers was a very close range, so everything about
Meteor
’s disguise had to be perfect. A whiff of suspicion, the smallest detail out of place, the glint of sun off a brass button,
and the British ship would flee at flank speed, filling the air with the dreaded RRR signal, “Under attack by surface raider.”
They had to get that close because
Meteor
’s guns were old, built before the First War. They lacked the range and the accuracy of modern naval cannons. Her guns were
concealed by hinged sections of the hull that operated on a counterweight system. One pull and the metal flaps collapsed to
reveal the weapons.

Everyone had worked long hours to transform
Meteor
into
Osaka Maru.
Breslau had pored over Lloyd’s shipping register for weeks before they sailed, searching through the names and descriptions
of several thousand merchant ships, looking for a vessel of roughly eight thousand tons from a neutral country with a silhouette
similar to that of
Meteor
. As part of the hoax, the masts and ventilators were painted yellow, the funnel painted black with a bright red top. When
Max first saw her a month ago from the deck of
Dresden
, he had been convinced. So far two British merchant ships had fallen for the ruse. Max hoped they were closing in on a third
victim.

“Now Felix, tell me about yourself. Where are you from?”

“I’m from Danzig, Herr Oberleutnant.”

“Danzig. I see—a Prussian like me.”

“Yes, sir. A Prussian.” Certainly the boy didn’t have the discipline of a Prussian. He seemed more like a Bavarian.

“And you had a job in Prussia before you came into the Kriegsmarine?”

“Group leader in the Reich Labor Service, Herr Oberleutnant.”

Not a lad with all his cups in the cupboard, Max thought. The Labor Service managed the flow of teenagers putting in their
obligatory six months of work for the benefit of the Reich. They marched in parades wearing storm trooper uniforms and carrying
polished shovels at right shoulder arms. The shovel was the proper symbol since they spent most of their time digging ditches.
Felix had obviously stayed on after his six-month service to serve as head ditch digger, but he didn’t seem to have much respect
for authority now. Probably heard too many Nazi Party slogans about equality. Max could think of nothing else to say, so the
two fell into a tense silence. They made a full lap of the deck that way before
Meteor
suddenly went to full speed.

With a loud boom, the hinged portion of the hull gave way and exposed the guns, which fired immediately. Because
Meteor
had no firing gong, the loud report of the batteries surprised him. Max dashed for the bridge. The six-inch guns barked again,
the sound sharp in his ears. He smelled cordite mixed in with the salt air. Just as he came onto the bridge, the signalman
reported, “Wireless transmitting stopped, Herr Kapitän. She only got one signal off.”

“Cease firing.”

The gunnery officer spoke into the circuit that connected him with the gun captains and the shooting stopped. Because
Meteor
had no system of centralized fire control, the gun captains aimed and fired their individual batteries as in the days of
sail.

“She’s struck her colors,” Max said, peering at the Britisher through his binoculars now.

Hauer rapped out his orders: “Boarding party away. Engines all stop. Guards on deck. Oberleutnant Brekendorf.”

Max came to attention. “Ja, Herr Kapitän?”

“You will escort the prisoners below and see that they are settled.”

“Jawohl, Herr Kapitän.”

“Signalman.”

“Ja, Herr Kapitän.”

“Ask the radio officer to cancel the distress signal.”

“At once, Herr Kapitän.”

A difficult maneuver, Max knew.
Meteor
carried several reservists who had been telegraphers aboard merchant ships and tapped the Morse key with a merchantman’s
feel. Sometimes they could cancel a British distress signal by tapping out that it had been a mistake, but British operators
could usually tell the way a German signaled, even if the German had a civilian touch. Rarely could the Brits be fooled.

Max left the bridge, went to his cabin, and removed the Japanese disguise. Damned if he would confront the enemy in a straw
hat. The British lifeboats were in the water and rowing toward
Meteor
by the time he came up on the main deck. He watched the small boats bobbing on the light swell. The sea was calm and deep
blue in the bright afternoon sun. They were twelve hundred kilometers southwest of Java with weather warm and fair. Pray it
stayed that way. The Brits reached
Meteor
in short order, and the first man up the ladder was the captain, binoculars still at his neck.

Max saluted. “Captain, I am Senior Lieutenant Brekendorf, second watch officer of the auxiliary merchant raider
Meteor
.”

“I can bloody well see that, young man. If I had been on the bridge instead of my fool of a second officer, you’d never have
gotten within five miles of me, laddie.”

“I’m sure of it, Herr Kapitän,” Max said. Even on the verge of losing the war, the arrogance of these Englishmen never stopped.

The rest of the British officers came up the ladder, followed by their crew—thirty Africans, each one dark as chocolate. Lascars,
the English called them—natives they used to crew ships because they worked cheaper than English sailors. Max had encountered
Lascars before, on a small freighter captured by
Graf Spee
, but the sight of so many still surprised him. He’d seen an African only once in his entire life before going to sea. That
was with his father, in Berlin in 1925. Negroes from the former German Cameroons sold fruit on the streets in those days,
and Max’s father had bought him a banana from one of the men. But Max was so frightened that he just cried. Finally his father
ate the banana himself. On
Spee
, Max had learned that Lascars came mainly from British colonies in Africa and India. They seemed to feel that one group of
white men was the same as the next, and they were just as happy to work for the Germans as the British. Langsdorff had assigned
them to cleaning the interior of the ship, and the Lascars fell upon the task with great vigor.

When everyone from the British ship had assembled on deck, Max addressed them: “Gentlemen, you are now prisoners of the German
navy. You will be treated in accordance with the rules and regulations governing the treatment of prisoners of war under the
Geneva Convention. There are already seventy-four prisoners on board and you will be confined with them. You are free to roam
the deck during daylight hours and make use of the swimming pool and library as long as you stay out of the way of the crew
and do not interfere with their work. All sailors remain under the authority of their officers and our orders to you will
be given through them.” The British captain raised his hand. “Yes, Captain?”

“We won’t be expected to bunk in with these chaps, will we?” He inclined his head toward the Lascars.

“No, Captain. Officers all bunk together and are attended by their stewards.”

This pleased the captain and he nodded. “But you’re not going to bunk these niggers in with the English crews? I mean…”

Max thought for a moment. Putting the Lascars in with British crewmen they had previously captured would cause problems. He
hardly wanted to be called to task by Captain Hauer for not foreseeing this. “No, Captain. We will not mix the men together.
This way, if you please, gentlemen.”

Max led them down the main deck, past the ship’s crane to the aft companionway. The prisoners followed him down the narrow
metal stairs to the lowest deck of the ship, which was below the waterline. Max gave a curt nod to the sentry on duty, who
casually produced the key to the officers’ brig and offered it over. Did no one on this ship move with the snap of a real
German navy man? Max refused the key. He pointed to the door and barked, “Open it!” That was the only way to deal with these
loafers.

Max stepped into the large cabin, which was lined with bunks on both walls. The eleven British officers already in residence
were enjoying their first drink of the afternoon. “Hello, old boy,” the senior man said. “Steward, chota peg for these officers.
More guests, lads. Do come in, chaps, come in. Damned sorry to see you.” He stuck out his hand to the new captain. “Carruthers,
Duchess of Connaught
.”

“Philbrick,” said the new captain. “
Durmitor
.”

Once the introductions had been made, Carruthers assigned bunks to the new prisoners and helped them stow their meager personal
effects.

“You’ll be let out once we’re under way,” Max said. He returned to the corridor and led the colored crewmen to the mine room.
There were no mines anymore—they’d all been laid months ago off the South African coast, back when Max was still languishing
in Buenos Aires. “In you go,” he ordered. The men filed in one by one and seated themselves disconsolately on the floor. “Who’s
the senior man among you?”

“Nkhomo,” said a tall, older man, indicating himself.

“We will send in bedding for you. Crews mess together, officers served first. That is all. I expect you to keep order in here.
Do you understand?”

“Yes, sahib.” Nkhomo inclined his head in a bow.

Max had never been addressed this way before, but he liked it. Sahib. No wonder the British were so fond of their colonies.
Moments after he left the Lascars, he realized he’d forgotten to ask Captain Philbrick for his binoculars. Prisoners were
not allowed to keep seafaring instruments of any kind—in fact, Max should have searched everyone’s baggage. Damn. It wasn’t
like him to be so neglectful of his duty. Was the lackadaisical atmosphere of the ship beginning to affect him as well? He
had to be better than that. He must be better than that.

He had almost reached the officers’ brig when the loudspeaker blared: “Oberleutnant Brekendorf to the bridge.”

Max hesitated, then made for the bridge. Hauer and Breslau were waiting for him when he got there, looking over the British
cargo manifest. “Ah, our Japanese gentleman,” Breslau said. “Be a good fellow and have a glance at this for us, Oberleutnant.”

Max spoke better English than any of the other officers, something Hauer seemed to resent. He took the document from Breslau.
Across the top in bold letters:
Official Cargo Manifest.
Below that:
If the responsible officer feels that this manifest may fall into the hands of forces hostile to H.M. Government, he may dispose
of

it in accordance with Admiralty instructions issued 20 September 1939 in Notices to Mariners Vol. III/p12/ParagraphE.

“Cotton,” Max said, continuing to read. “She’s loaded with cotton from Bombay in transit to a convoy forming up off Cape Town.”

The explosion surprised Max so much that he dropped the manifest.

“She’s going,” Breslau said.

“The boat’s still standing off,” the watch officer cautioned.

Max collected the papers from the deck, then removed his binoculars from their bracket and peered at the burning ship.
Meteor
’s launch was standing off about ten meters from the Britisher.

“The recall signal, now!” Hauer ordered. A deep-throated whistle split the air, then split it again.

Another explosion. Through his glasses Max saw a figure come on deck—grinning, of all things. Dieter. Max knew his friend
loved being the engineer on the demolition party. “I can’t decide which I like better,” he’d once said, “working with dynamite
or cavorting with fräuleins.” He certainly had a will to mayhem that fit nicely with the work of blowing things up.

Dieter ran down the tilting deck of the British ship, climbed the rail, threw his cap toward the boat, and dived overboard.
His grinning sailors hauled him and his cap into the launch and came full speed for
Meteor
.

Binoculars still to his eyes, Hauer said, “One day Falkenheyn is going to cut it too damn close.” He frowned disapprovingly,
but Max felt certain that strict as he was, the captain enjoyed Dieter’s irrepressible behavior as much as everyone else did.