An Honorable German (2 page)

The pocket battleship shuddered as she went to full speed, her huge propellers foaming the sea beneath her stern. The steel
deck vibrated heavily under Max’s shoes.

“Signalman!”

“Ja, Herr Kapitän.” The chief signalman snapped to attention.

“Signal, ‘Heave to, no wireless transmitting.’”

Bright signal flags soared up
Spee
’s signal halyards now that she was close enough to dispense with the Morse lamp, but the small ship continued turning away,
soon presenting her stern to
Graf Spee
. A square of brilliant red cloth broke over the stern—the Red Duster of the British Merchant Navy. What fools!
Spee
could blow the freighter out of the water at eighteen kilometers. By God the English were always stubborn in their pride;
Max had never met an Englishman who wasn’t arrogant as a Prussian general.

“She’s transmitting a distress signal!” one of the young telephone talkers screeched, repeating what the codebreaking squad
down below was telling him.

“No need to shout,” Langsdorff said quietly. “What’s she saying?”

“She’s, she’s… transmitting, ‘Immediate to admiral commanding South Atlantic, RRR S.S.
Clement
gunned.’” RRR was British Admiralty code for attack by a surface raider. Max already had his hand on the gunnery phone when
Langsdorff delivered his next order: “A shot over her bow, quickly!”

They could not afford to have the freighter disclose their location and bring down the wrath of the British fleet.

“Bridge here,” Max barked to the gunnery officer on the other end of the phone. “Order from captain: the target is the merchant
ship. A shot over her bow.”

Immediately the firing gongs sounded, warning the ship’s company that the main battery was about to fire.

Turret Anton revolved under electric orders from the gun director. Max bent his knees and gripped the metal handhold just
below the bridge windows to avoid being thrown to the deck. The forward battery fired with a deafening report, the recoil
blasting throughout the ship. As the shock waves passed through him Max instantly smelled the cordite propellant. A tower
of white water shot into the air a hundred meters forward of the freighter’s bow.

But the ship continued her flight, oily smoke pouring from her stack, and
Graf Spee
kept up her charge, spray breaking over her as she beat through the swells.
Spee
’s Morse lamp rattled back to life, continually repeating the order to cease transmitting, seconded by the whipping signal
flags.

“Still transmitting, Herr Kapitän,” the telephone talker said.

“Range?”

“One and a half kilometers, Herr Kapitän.”

“Rake her bridge—quickly, quickly!”

Max snatched up the gunnery phone again. “Order from captain. Target is the bridge of the merchantman. Forward machine guns,
fire!”

The staccato rap of the machine guns rang out, bullets punching holes in the freighter’s superstructure and smashing her bridge
windows. But still the propellers of the British ship churned up an angry wake as she tried to make her best speed. Max’s
heart thumped in his chest. Every minute she kept up her distress call increased the danger for
Graf Spee
. Still, the British captain displayed courage, he gave him that; probably an old sea dog, haughty as a lord, stubborn as
pig iron, knowledge of half the world’s oceans tucked into his mind. Max wondered if the captain would be stubborn enough
to get his crew killed.

Suddenly the British ship began to yaw. A crewman dashed to the stern and struck the Red Duster.

“Transmission ceased, Herr Kapitän.”

“Cease firing,” Langsdorff ordered, “reduce speed to dead slow.”

The machine guns fell silent, spent brass cartridges tinkling as they rolled around on the deck. Max could feel the ship slow

beneath him as her way fell off.

“Oberleutnant.”

“Ja, Herr Kapitän?”

“See the boarding party away. I want the captain, the chief engineer, and any of the ship’s papers they can find. Remind them.
And Oberleutnant?”

“Herr Kapitän?”

“Of course, there is to be no bloodshed.”

“Jawohl, Herr Kapitän.”

Max saluted and ducked out of the bridge. He grasped the metal side rails of the outboard stairway with both hands, then lifted
his feet and slid to the boat deck where he found the boarding party formed up, Dieter at their side, trying his best to look
stern. In front of the sailors, both he and Max were very serious. Langsdorff always told them, “If you don’t take yourselves
seriously, you cannot expect the men to do so.” Since Max out-ranked him by a grade, Dieter came to attention first and gave
Max a parade-ground salute. Max returned the salute with equal formality.

“Orders from the bridge,” Max said.

“Boarding party standing by, sir.”

Max repeated the captain’s orders. Dieter saluted again, then faced his crew and ordered them into the sixty-foot motor launch.
Once they’d settled in, one of
Graf Spee
’s two cranes plucked the boat from the deck and lowered it into the sea.

Max returned to the bridge and watched the launch speed toward the British ship, its sharp bow throwing up spray. The Brits
weren’t waiting. They clambered into their own boats, lowered them, and began to row frantically away, oars thrashing the
water—a useless gesture since Dieter quickly overtook them. He seized the British officers wanted by the captain and brought
them to the deck of
Graf Spee
. They left the remaining British crew to sail for shore—maybe fifty kilometers.
Spee
would have rescued the men if they’d been another fifty kilometers out from land. That evening, Langsdorff would report the
position of the British lifeboats to the marine station at Pernambuco on the six-hundred-meter emergency band.

Max met the British officers with a rigid salute, nearby German sailors also coming to attention. Langsdorff insisted all
prisoners be treated with proper military courtesy, and his men needed little prodding to respect this order. Such courtesy
was part of the brotherhood of the sea. Max led the three British officers from the deck to the captain’s formal day cabin.
Outside the door stood two sentries, arms crossed, each with a drawn dagger in his right hand, the blade held across his chest.
Max ushered the British officers into the well-appointed cabin, its stuffed sofas looking incongruous in a warship, and motioned
for them to sit. A bookshelf along the far wall held leather-bound titles in both German and English, including Winston Churchill’s
World Crisis
in two volumes, prominently displayed. “Gentlemen, if I may,” Max said, “I am Senior Lieutenant Brekendorf, second watch
officer of
Admiral Graf Spee
.”

“I am Captain Harris and this is First Officer Gill and Chief Engineer Bryant,” said the oldest of the three men, his thick
Scottish accent hard for Max to understand. His uniform coat had four gold rings on each sleeve, but the other two men were
in shirt-sleeves and bore no insignia of rank. They’d left their ship in a hurry; none of them even had their caps.

Max ordered Langsdorff’s steward to bring coffee, then offered each prisoner a cigarette. Lighting one himself, he considered
Harris briefly through a haze of smoke. The man had taken a pointless risk—the war would be over in a year. Everyone knew
it—the British could never hold out against Germany. And this wasn’t even Britain’s fight: the Germans had gone into Poland
only to reclaim what had been stolen from them at Versailles after the First War. But the conceited Brits couldn’t stand to
see Germany regain her rightful place in the world; Chamberlain had foolishly signed a treaty with Warsaw committing Great
Britain to war should the Poles be attacked. Well, now the Germans had Poland and the British had their war. “Why did you
run, Captain? You placed your crew in unnecessary danger.”

Harris stared at him for a moment. “I was a prisoner in the first lot and didn’t fancy spending the second go-round that way
as well.”

“You were captured by Germany in the First War?”

The captain nodded and puffed his cigarette a few times before speaking. “By the bloody raider
Wolf
in 1915, on an Argyle and Dundee steamer bound for Calcutta. Bastard caught us at dawn and there was nothing to be done for
it but haul down the colors and go over in our boats. I was a prisoner on that damned cow for months.”

The steward interrupted with coffee, serving the men in china cups. It was good coffee too, bitter and strong, the kind one
needed at sea.

“Of course, we will want your codebooks and cargo manifests,” Max said.

Harris smiled pleasantly. “Of course, I put them over the side as soon as I saw you weren’t
Ajax
. We keep them in a canvas bag weighted with a firebrick, just like in the First War. They’re at the bottom of the drink if
you want them. I thought you bloody Germans were supposed to be so bloody smart.”

The other two officers looked away. Blood came up in Max’s face. Arrogant, these British—even as prisoners, sipping coffee
in their captor’s ship. He wanted to hit the British captain but squared his shoulders and nodded curtly instead. “Naturally,
that is the usual thing,” he said. “What cargo were you carrying?”

“Oh, for God’s sake, man,” Harris snapped. “I’m not obliged to tell you that.”

The firing gong sounded, cutting the discussion short. The British officers looked quizzically at Max. “The firing gong, gentlemen.
I’m afraid we’re going to sink your ship. Kindly place your cups down and brace yourselves.” Max held on to the captain’s
desk—bolted to the deck, like all the furniture on the ship.

A great roar sounded, like dynamite going off in a well.
Graf Spee
heeled from the recoil, tossing all their coffee cups onto the carpet, the report sharp in Max’s ears, even belowdecks. First
Officer Gill leapt to the porthole, followed by the chief engineer. Harris, white-faced, kept his seat, staring at the bulkhead.
Max glanced through the porthole but saw no smoke or flame rising from
Clement
. The abandoned freighter bobbed placidly on the swell.

“Missed her,” Gill said, almost to himself.

Max said nothing. Presently the gong sounded and the big guns fired again. This time Max watched the shells fall into the
sea, sending up geysers of seawater well short of the British ship. He felt the heat rising in his face again. No one spoke.
When the third volley missed, Harris turned and looked at Max.

“Hard to find the range in this chop,” Max said, feeling foolish as soon as he spoke. Harris raised an eyebrow. The sea was
hardly raging.
Graf Spee
was heavily armed for a ship her size—too heavily armed—and the main batteries made her top-heavy, which had a poor effect
on her seakeeping and, in turn, on the accuracy of her guns. The gunnery officer had managed a perfect warning shot over
Clement
’s bow during the chase, but Max wondered now if it had been nothing more than luck.

“Perhaps we should wait until this storm passes,” Harris offered, blinking in the bright sunlight pouring into the cabin.

“Of course our guns are also not designed to engage a ship at such close range,” Max said. This excuse also sounded foolish,
though it was true. Another loud volley missed its mark, sending up more towers of water. At this rate it would be easier
to row a boat over to
Clement
and shoot holes in the merchantman’s hull with a pistol. Max resolved to provide no further comment and the four men fell
silent as
Spee
’s big guns banged away, shaking the cabin, knocking several books from the shelves. Captain Langsdorff became so frustrated
that he ordered a pair of torpedoes fired at the merchantman. Both missed. Finally the gunnery officer found the mark and
managed to set
Clement
afire; Max watched the flames spread across her deck. Suddenly the freighter exploded, sending a bright orange fireball high
into the air.

“Gasoline?” Max asked in surprise.

“Kerosene, sir,” said Gill. “Packed in cases.”

Max shook his head. Harris had braved
Graf Spee
’s fire with a hold full of kerosene.

“Steward, a beer for each of these officers.” Max looked at each one of the three in turn. “I must ask each of you for your
word of honor that you will not interfere in any way with the operation of the ship, else I will have to order an armed guard
over you at all times.”

Captain Harris answered without meeting Max’s eyes again. “You have it, laddie.”

“Then, gentlemen, I must return to my duties. Our captain will be along shortly to speak with you. Please make yourselves
comfortable. If you need anything, kindly make your request to the captain’s steward or to one of the sentries outside the
bulkhead. Our barbershop and canteen are both available to you and our medical and dental staff shall attend upon your request.”
He bowed slightly to the men as he’d learned to do at the Naval Academy, and the two junior officers nodded back. The captain
just sat in silence.

Graf Spee
had stood down from action stations; the men had returned to their regular duties. Everywhere Max looked, the crew repaired
the damage caused by the repeated firing of the big guns. Doors had been lifted from their hinges, flooring cracked, paint
stripped off bulkheads, and light bulbs shattered everywhere by the concussions.

When Max reached the administrative office, he opened the door to find two clerks wiping ink from the desks and floor.

“What is this?”

“Inkwells not secured, Herr Oberleutnant,” the senior rating said. Max frowned. What a mess. He helped the men clean up. By
the time they finished his uniform was stained with black ink.

His bridge watch was over and he’d been on duty since 0200, but before he slept Max sat in the office and read through the
radio intercepts of the past hours.
Graf Spee
had a special staff of B-Service cipher experts whose only task was to intercept and decode as many British radio signals
as possible. They spent their time in front of special radio receivers that automatically combed all frequencies and stopped
on one when it detected a message being transmitted. And the B-Service men were damned good. They had picked up and decoded
the signal from the British Admiralty declaring war on Germany three hours before
Spee
received official notice from Seekriegsleitung—the Naval War Staff—in Berlin. Most of the codebreakers had been mathematicians
before the war, others wireless operators aboard merchant ships. Often they could immediately decrypt the ciphers used by
the British Merchant Navy. Any code they couldn’t break in thirty minutes was sent on to their parent unit back in the Reich.