iron pirate (19 page)

Half a mile astern, her signal lamp flashing like a diamond eye, the New Zealand light cruiser
Pallas
followed reluctantly amongst the remains.

The convoy had scattered at the last moment when the first salvoes must have come crashing down. Hammers of hell, Hemrose thought bitterly.

'Stand by to lower boats!'

Hemrose trained his binoculars across the sea, hating the stench of escaping fuel oil and burned paintwork. A few figures floated or splashed amongst the filth, their bodies shining and pitiful in the oil. There were more corpses than living, but it was worth a try.

'Signal
Pallas
to cover us, Toby.'

The lamp clattered again. Even it sounded subdued.

A distant voice called, 'Lower away!' That was one of the whalers. The motorboat was all ready to slip from her falls, the surgeon in the cockpit with one of his SBA's.

He looked long and hard at a black line which lifted and dipped above the water like a crippled submarine. It was the keel of one of the escorting destroyers. Of a corvette there was no trace at all.

Another destroyer had escaped without a scratch and was now lashed alongside a listing tramp-steamer, hoses dousing some fires while men passed back and forth with stretchets and inert bundles. An oil tanker was awash, but still afloat, her engines ,md pumps working manfully to keep her going. Some wag had hoisted a Union Flag on the stump of her remaining mast.

The commander returned and watched the light cruiser increasing speed to circle around the scene of pain and death, her pale hull streaked with oil like an additional waterline.

Hemrose said savagely, 'Whole convoy wiped out except for these pathetic remnants!' He pounded the arm of his chair with his fist. 'All they needed was another day. The escort group was on the way from Gib, and three destroyers from Bermuda and us.'

The commander stared at the drifting filth and spreadeagled corpses. Some of them wore naval uniforms, or bits of them. It was like being with them, part of them. He resisted the urge to shiver. Even Hemrose must know that they would have stood no chance either.

The Admiralty had confirmed that the raider was
Prinz Luitpold,
and fresh details came in every hour. He watched his superior, suddenly glad that he did not share his responsibility.

Hemrose watched the boat coxswains signalling to one another with their shortened, personal semaphore. He knew what the commander was thinking. It made it worse. If
Wiltshire
had been on the spot, she might have scored a lucky hit, enough to cripple I he bastard, or at least slow him down.

Now the German could be anywhere. He thought of the signals, and the information from the lone freighter
Dunedin Pioneer
which had been left untouched. Somebody aboard that poor ship, a spectator to the total destruction of the one which had been towing her, had kept his head. Had reported seeing the enemy's faint silhouette as she headed away at full speed to the southwest.

The commander had asked, 'Give chase, sir?'

Hemrose had studied his charts wdth the navigating and cypher officers for an hour while they had steamed at full speed towards the convoy's last position.

The raider had steamed away without sinking the
Dunedin Pioneer.
There had to be a reason. Now as he watched the oil-streaked boats picking their way amongst the human remains, he went over it again for the hundredth time.

Give chase. To where? To the coastline of Brazil, or back along the same course?

It had certainly put the cat amongst the pigeons, he thought. Every available ship was under orders. A nightmare for the Admiralty and the Allied Command. There must be no let-up in the lines of supply to the armies in France. The Channel was filled with vessels of every kind, carrying fuel and ammunition, transport and the precious cargo of men to replace the convoys which passed them on the way back. The wounded and the dying.

According to the latest intelligence there were seventeen major convoys at sea. Well escorted for the most part, but to resist U-boat and bombing attacks, not a bloody great cruiser like
Prinz Luitpold.

Hemrose still could not fathom how it had happened. The RAF recce boys had reported that after the battle near Bear Island,
Prinz Luitpold
had been seen and photographed back at her lair in Bod$. It did not make any sense. Somebody's head would be on the block over it, but it offered no satisfaction for all this horror. He pictured the pandemonium in Whitehall. It made a change for them to be under siege. First the flying-bombs, then the massive V-2 rockets. The Allied HQ which controlled the Normandy invasion would be worried too. You could not ignore a raider, any raider. Convoys had to be diverted, held up, cancelled altogether.

Hemrose glanced around the open bridge, the intent figures and anxious faces. A midshipman was retching into his handkerchief as he stared at the bobbing remains which surrounded the tall hull.

Hemrose rasped, 'Get off my bridge, damn you, until you can act like a man!'

It was cruel and unfair. Hemrose knew it but did not care.

There was a third cruiser coming at full speed to join his little group. They should meet up with her in two days, unless . . . He said to the commander, 1 want a full team on this, Toby. The paymaster-commander, even the bloody chaplain. See to it."

The man's words came back to him and he heard himself say, 'Give chase - I don't think so, Toby. He had a reason for letting the
Dunedin Pioneer
stay afloat. He wanted her to see him steam ,iway, to report his course.' It felt easier now that he had decided. No, I reckon he changed direction as soon as he was clear of all I his. Get the convoy lists, and we'll study the chart. Outguess the bastard.' He eyed him grimly. 'It's up to us. As I see it, Toby, we'll get precious little advice from their lordships just now.' He wrinkled his nose. 'Signal a recall to the boats and we'll get under way.

that destroyer can stand by the survivors until the escort group turns up.'

He heard one of the boats creaking up to the davits and felt the commander let out a sigh. No U-boats were reported in their vicinity. But if they could miss a big cruiser there was no point in .aiding to the risks.

The deck began to tremble and the
Pallas
headed round to take station astern again.

When the third cruiser joined them it would make all the difference. He looked down from the bridge and saw the first survivors being led away, wrapped in oil-sodden blankets. There did not seem to be many of them, he thought.

Resume course, cruising speed, Toby.' He settled back in the ( hair. 'Send for a brandy. I need to
think
about this one.'

Astern, the listless ships, and the great span of oil and fragments seemed to fill the horizon.

For Hemrose the war had suddenly become a personal one.

It was like fighting free from a nightmare, only to discover that it was real. Even the overhead light, although it was partly screened by some kind of curtain, had a hard, unreal shape. Cold and still, like death.

The man lay motionless, his hands balled into fists at his sides while he waited for his senses to return, or to fade again and leave him in peace.

In tiny fragments his mind recorded that he was suspended in some kind of cot, high-sided and white. He felt the surge of panic. A coffin.

He tried again and groped for clues, explanations, like piecing together parts of a puzzle.

He made his taut limbs relax but kept his hands pressed against his sides. His body was naked, but warm beneath a sheet and a soft blanket. Again, he felt the surge of hope. A nightmare after all. He could feel the pulsating tremor of engines through his

spine, the gentle clatter of unseen objects. But he felt despair close over him once more. It was not his ship. He closed his eyes tightly as if to shut out the stark, leaping pictures, the great fountain of searing flames, exploding metal as the torpedo, maybe two, had exploded into them. He tried again, and in his reeling thoughts seemed to read the vessel's name, as he had once seen it at the dockside. The
Radnor Star.
An old ship, then part of an east-bound convoy from St John's to Liverpool, packed to the gills with engine spares, bridge-building equipment, armoured vehicles, all heavy stuff. The poor old girl must have gone down like a stone afterwards.

He opened his eyes wide and stared at the solitary light.
Afterwards.
What then?

It was almost painful to work it out. He had been in the open, something in his hand. Had to see the captain. Then the explosion, wild faces, mouths open in silent cries, smoke, dense choking smoke which he imagined he could still taste.

Then the boat, water swilling over his feet and thighs as someone had fought it away from the ship, the terrible suction as she had dived for the last time. Why had nobody seen them? It was coming back, sharp and hard, like heart-beats, the panic of a child who wants to hide under the blankets.

It had been at night. That was it.

He felt the sweat break over his chest and stomach. The lifeboat then. Why did his mind refuse to examine it?

He heard a distant bell, the clatter of feet somewhere.
Where

the hell am I?

He tried again. My
name is Peter Younger.
He wanted to laugh, but was closer to weeping. He had a name after all. He could not be dead.

It was difficult not to cry out as another picture loomed through the mist.

Men bailing and working at a handful of oars, a great sea which lifted and flung the boat like a sodden log. Later still, the deathly quiet, the silent figures, some seared by fire, others who had died of exposure, a few eyeless, victims of seabirds.
They were all dying.
He vaguely recalled the hoarse voice of Colin Ames,
Radnor Star's
second mate, close against his ear. He must have been dying too. The whole bridge had collapsed, and it was a miracle he had made it into a boat.

Take the tiller, Sparks.' That was all he had said. Sparks? It was coming back. He had been the radio officer. Had been on his way to the bridge with a signal when the world had exploded. He recalled the other man wrapping his jacket around him. He must have lost his own. Younger examined his body limb by limb without moving a muscle. He ached all over, but he was whole.

then more distorted faces, alien voices, hands hauling him into .mother boat, a huge ship away in the distance. He tensed. This must be the one.

He remembered that he had been too weak to protest or struggle, but knew that in some strange way he had not wanted to leave his dead companions, and the boat he had steered until the last oar had drifted away.

All dead. Like the old ship, nothing left.

Another twist of terror as he pictured his mother reading the telegram. God, there had been plenty of those in their street. He could not remember its name, or that of the town. A seaport. Pictures of his father and uncles, ail in uniform. Sailors.

Feet scraped on metal and he tested his strength, tried to raise his head above the side of the cot.

His eyes would not focus at first. All glaring white, bottles and jars on neat shelves, like a hospital, while nearby lay a pile of gramophone records.

Perhaps he had gone mad?

Bit by bit, section by section, like a complicated, coded message over the receiver.

He stared uncomprehending at two uniform jackets which hung from a brass rail. One with three stripes, the other with two, with some odd insignia above them, and - he caught his breath, the Nazi eagle on the right breast. He had seen enough of those. Again the urge to laugh. But only in films.

Then he saw the other cot, the untidy white beard, the ancient face creased with pain or some terrible memory.

He held on to what he saw. Like a life-raft. It was Old Shiner. A bit of a character in the
Radnor Star,
listed as boatswain but one who could do almost anything. He had been at sea since he was twelve.
A bit of a character.

He caught a brief picture of him in the boat, his pale eyes wild while he had clutched the cat against his scrawny body.

Younger attempted to bridge the gap between the boat and here. All he could remember was warmth, the fact that he felt no urge to hold on, even to live.

He imagined he had heard a woman's voice too, but that was impossible. A part of something else maybe.

So he and Old Shiner were in a German ship. Prisoners. Survivors. But not a U-boat. He recalled the misty silhouette of the ship. He also remembered a needle going into his arm, oblivion, but not before the world had begun to shake and thunder to gunfire. He had wanted to scream, to escape; instead there had been nothing.

He winced as a shadow fell across the cot and he saw a man in gold-rimmed glasses looking down at him.

'Well, now, Herr Ames, are you feeling better?'

Even his voice made him shake with silent laughter. Shock.

The man must be a doctor, and he spoke like one of those Germans in the movies.

He prised his lips apart, or so it felt, and tried to explain that his name was Younger. Then he saw the crumpled, oil-stained coat with the two tarnished stripes lying on a table. Ames's jacket, the one he had used to shield him from the wind and drenching spray. It flooded through him like fire. Anger, hatred, and an overwhelming sense of loss.

The doctor leaned closer and took his wrist. 'You had a narrow escape, young man.'

Younger moved his dry lips again. 'What ship?'

‘Prinz Luitpold.'
He lowered the wrist.
'Kriegsmarine

Younger was not sure if the name meant anything or not.

How is Old Shiner?'

'Is that his name?' The doctor gave a sad smile. 'He will live, but I fear his mind may be scarred.'

Younger heard himself shouting, but the words sounded wild, meaningless.

A door opened and he saw an armed sailor peer in at them, his eyes questioning.
Just like the movies,
a voice seemed to murmur. It must be his own, he thought despairingly.