iron pirate (3 page)

It was an additional, unwanted drama. The remaining destroyer's captain knew better, even if the other one was his best friend.

It could have been his ship. The two after-turrets roared out again and sent a violent shock-wave through the bridge as if they had hit a sandbar.
Or it could have been us.
It would be no different. You must not even think about it.

He heard himself reply flatly, 'Denied. Discontinue action.'

He glanced quickly at his watch, aware of the tension around him, the shock at what had happened so swiftly.

His voice seemed to move them again, voices called into telephones and pipes, and Gudegast passed his prearranged course to (he wheelhouse. Parts of a pattern. There were things to be checked, not least preparations for another air attack before their own covering fighters flew out to shepherd them to safety.

Hechler raised his glasses and stared at the mounting curtain of smoke where the railway station and surrounding streets had been under fire. It was already falling away as the cruiser swung on to her new course and threw spray over the forecastle like heavy rain. The signal would be sent, the army would be left to use whatever advantage and breathing space the bombardment had offered. Hechler moved his glasses and saw the stricken destroyer hard on her side, the swell around her smooth and stained with oil. A few heads bobbed in the water, but as the distance increased they seemed without meaning or purpose. I wo aircraft shot down or severely damaged. A small price to pay for a destroyer and her company, he thought bitterly.

He lowered his glasses and moved to the opposite side to watch I he other destroyer increasing speed to take station again. Nearby he could hear the watchkeepers whispering together while the voice-pipes kept up their constant chatter. Routine and discipline kept men from fretting too much. Later they would remember, but their pain would be mellowed by pride. The legend lived on. They had lost one Arado. Two absent faces at the mess table, telegrams to their homes, and later Hechler would write a letter to each family. Now, as he watched the drifting smoke he was dismayed to realise he could barely remember the faces of the dead airmen.

A messenger scrambled on to the bridge, wide-eyed and anxious, the first time he had left his armour-plated shell since the guns had opened fire.

Theil took the signal pad from him and after a quick glance said, 'Priority Two, sir. To await new orders.' Their eyes met.

Hechler nodded and removed his cap. The air felt clammy against his forehead. He thought suddenly of a bath, hot water and soap, an unbelievable luxury. He wanted to smile, but knew he would be unable to stop*. It was madness. A helplessness which always followed a risk. He glanced up at his ship, the smoke trickling past her funnel-cap and the shivering signal halliards. She was not built to act as a clumsy executioner, a tool for some general who had failed to outwit the enemy's tactics. He thought of the destroyer which would soon come to rest on the bottom, how her survivors would still be floundering about and dying, but still able to see
Prinz Luitpold's
shadow fading into the mist. Abandoned. In the twinkling of an eye they had become mere statistics.

He realised that Theil was watching him. Waiting, his features controlled and impassive.

The signal was brief, but said all that was needed. Fresh orders probably meant they would be ordered away from this battleground. The news would flash through the ship like lightning. It always did. Where to? What mission had been dreamed up this time?

Hechler gripped the nearest handrail and felt the ship respond to his touch. Like a great beast whose respect had to be constantly earned and won.

So many shells fired, and each selected target bombarded without damage and without cost to any man aboard. One aircraft was lost, and the others would be retrieved as soon as it was safe to stop the ship and hoist them inboard.

He felt suddenly angry, contemptuous of the fools who had risked the very survival of this ship for a gesture, one which would and could make no difference.

'Perhaps we shall be given bigger game to hunt, Viktor.' He looked at him searchingly and saw him flinch. 'Unless some politican has already thought up some wild escapade for us.'

Theil dropped his voice. I am a sailor, not a man of politics, sir.'

Hechler touched his arm and saw Jaeger relax as he watched them. 'Sometimes we must be both!' Then he smiled, and felt a kind of recklessness move through him. This ship is a legend. She cannot remain one while she sniffs after fragments left by the army.'

The two Arados flew over the mastheads and rolled their wings. They had already forgotten. Survival was a great tonic.

Theil said, 'Normandy, do you think, sir?'

Hechler walked to the gratings again and rested his hands on the rail below the glass screen. The destroyer was already zigzagging ahead of them, ready to seek out and depth-charge an enemy submarine, although it was unlikely there would be one in this area, he thought.

He considered Theil's question and pictured his ship charging through the invasion fleets and their supply vessels like an avenger. A proud but short-lived gesture it would be too.

No, it was something else. He felt a shiver run through him. A war on the defensive could not be won. He looked down at the forecastle, at the two pairs of smoke-grimed guns as they were trained forward again.

It was what he was chosen for, and why the ship had been built. To fight and to win, out in the open like
Scharnhorst
or the cruisers of his father's forgotten war.

Hechler nodded to himself. Nobody would forget his
Prinz Luitpold.

Faces of War

Kapitan zur See Dieter Hechler emptied another cup of strong black coffee and glanced around his spacious day cabin. Sunlight shone brightly through the polished scuttles, and he could hear some of his seamen chattering and laughing as they went about their work on deck.

The ship felt at peace as she swung to her cable, and it was hard to believe that they had been in action less than two days back, and had seen the destroyer go down.

Hechler stood up and walked to one of the scuttles. From a corner of his eye he could see Mergel watching his every move, his pen poised over a bulging pad as it had been for an hour or so since they had anchored. Mergel was a petty officer writer and would have made someone a fine secretary had he been a woman, Hechler often thought.

Even the weather was different. He shaded his eyes and looked towards the shore, the high shelving slope of green headland, the clusters of toy houses which ran all the way down to the water's edge. Untroubled - from a distance anyway.

Hechler was moved by what he saw. It was the east coast of Denmark, and the port which was set in a great fjord was named Vejle. He smiled sadly. He had visited here several times during the war, and earlier in a training ship, or to holiday with his parents and brother. Happy, carefree days. It gave him a strange feeling to be here again in
Prinz Luitpold.
Many eyes would be watching the ship, but how would they see her? Would anyone admire her lines, or would they see her only as an extension of the occupation forced on their peaceful country?

He saw a fuel lighter move away slowly from the side, men staring up at the ship, some soldiers with their weapons slung carelessly on their shoulders, a world apart from the Russian Front, he thought. With the taste of good coffee in his mouth he felt vaguely uneasy, as if he should be doing something useful. Another fuel lighter cast off and followed the first one towards the fjord. Stuck, the chief engineer, would run him to earth eventually to report on his department. Even in harbour there was no obvious rest from routine. Visitors came and went. Requests, demands, questions - it was like being responsible for a small town.

The thought of going ashore touched something in Hechler and made him eager to leave, if only to smell the land, feel the lush grass beneath his feet.

He sighed. It was not to be. Not yet anyway.

He looked at Mergel. 'Have the letters done first, and I'll sign them.' He tried to picture the faces of the two dead airmen. Did such letters ever help, he wondered?

Mergel gathered up his papers and moved to the door. 'May I ask, sir, will there be leave?'

Hechler shrugged. 'You will probably know that before I do.' He waited for the door to close. In the ship's crowded world he treasured the moments he could be alone. Alone with his ship perhaps?

He poured a last cup of coffee and ran his eyes over the pad of signals and news reports again.

There was some sort of security blanket on Normandy, he decided. Only one thing was certain. The Allies had not been flung back into the sea, but were pushing deeper into France. There was a mention of some possible secret weapon which would soon change all that, and enemy losses were still heavy in the Atlantic due to the aggressive tactics of the U-boats. Hechler bit his lip. Many words, but they said little.

The sentry opened the door and Theil stepped into the cabin, his cap beneath his arm.

Hechler gestured to a chair. 'It will be quite a while before the admiral arrives, Viktor.' He had seen the surprise in Theil's eyes, as if he had expected to find his captain unshaven and still in his seagoing gear.

Theil said, The upper deck is washed down, sir, and the boats are being repainted. The admiral will find no fault in the ship's appearance.'

Hechler looked away. There it was again. The defensive, bitter note in Theil's tone. As if the ship was his sole responsibility. Hechler pushed the pad of signals towards him. 'Read these, Viktor. They may amuse you.'

He put on his best jacket and buttoned it carefully. In his mind he could see the admiral very clearly. One of those round, ageless faces with wide confident eyes. He smiled. Unless you knew him. He was only a year or two older than himself and already a rear-admiral. One of Donitz's shining lights, everyone said, highly thought of even by the Fuhrer himself. Or so it was claimed. Looking back it was not so surprising, Hechler thought. He had first met him when they had both been cadets, and then later they had served together in an old training cruiser which had unexpectedly been called to speed to the assistance of a burning cargo-liner in the Mediterranean, The event had captured the headlines, and in Germany had been blown up enormously to cover other less savoury news of attacks on Jews which had been giving the country a bad name abroad.

While others who had once been cadets in those far-off days had progressed or fallen by the wayside, he had always managed to seize the limelight. Now he was a rear-admiral. It would be interesting to see how that had changed him.

Theil said, 'Will there be leave, sir?'

Hechler looked at him and smiled.
You to?
I expect so. Our people can do with it. This kind of landfall makes the war seem far away.' -

'It's not for myself , sir, you understand

Hechler nodded. 'We
all
need a break.'

Theil shifted in his chair. 'I hate not knowing. What is expected of us? I am not afraid of fighting, even dying, but not to know is like a weight on your back.'

Hechler thought again of his father.
Like waiting to go over the top.
Theil was right, but it was not like the man to express it so openly. Perhaps he should have looked for some additional strain earlier?

Hechler said, 'We both know that we cannot go on like this. The
Prinz
was not built to nurse an army. She was designed to fight. He waved his hand towards the sunlit scuttles. 'In open water, like she did off North Cape.' The picture rarely left his thoughts. It had been the first battle he had fought in this ship. Up there off the Norwegian coast which had been shrouded in daylong darkness. Two British cruisers and some destroyers in a blizzard like the one last year which had covered the end of
Scharnhorst
in those same terrible seas. At the end of the day

Prinz Luitpold
had won the battle, even though her escorts had been sunk, and another cruiser set ablaze. The British had hauled away, their losses unknown, and had left this ship almost unmarked.

Both sides had claimed a triumph, But Hechler knew in his heart that
Prinz Luitpold
was the only victor.

There was a tap at the door and after a small hesitation the executive officer, Korvettenkapitan Werner Froebe, stepped inside. Froebe was tall and ungainly, with huge hands which seemed forever in his way. Next to Theil he was responsible for l he running of the ship and the supervision of the various watches and working parties.

Theil glared at him. 'Well?'

Froebe looked instead at his captain. I apologise for the intrusion, sir, but there is an officer come aboard from the town.' He dropped his eyes. 'A major of the SS, sir.'

Hechler studied him gravely. 'What does he want?'

'He wishes to load some stores on board, sir.' He held out a piece of paper. 'He has the admiral's authority.'

Hechler took it and frowned. 'It seems in order. Have the boatswain select a party of hands to assist him.'

Froebe said glumly, The major has some people, er, workers

Theil was looking from one of the scuttles. He said shortly, Civilian prisoners, more trouble!'

Hechler saw their exchange of glances. Civilian prisoners could mean anything in wartime, but with an SS major in charge it probably meant they were from a labour camp.

Deal with it.' When Froebe had left he added, 'The admiral will be here soon, Viktor. I don't want the ship cluttered up with working parties when he steps aboard.'

Theil picked up his cap. 'I agree.' He seemed suddenly pleased to go, all thoughts of the next mission, even home leave forgotten.

Hechler examined his feelings. Like most of his colleagues he had heard stories of overcrowded labour camps, and the rough handling by the SS guards. But it was not his province; his place was here in the ship, or another if so ordered. It was what he was trained for, what he had always wanted.