Sink or Capture! (Commander Cochrane Smith series) Page 2

  He had served with Smith in that other war and the years showed in the wire-wool grizzling in the close-cropped black hair. But though he was thicker in the waist, he was still surprisingly agile and flat-bellied for a man of his size and weight. Now he knew that look on Smith’s face, fell back and climbed into the boat.

  Smith followed, the whaler was lowered and made its rocking-horse way over the swell from Cassandra with Buckley at the helm. As they closed the merchantman he hailed her, “Orion!” But no figure showed on the freighter’s deck, no voice called in answer. The whaler slid in alongside the rust-streaked hull. Two of the hands grabbed at a Jacob’s ladder that dangled beside loose falls while others held the whaler off from crashing against the steel side. The ship’s list meant that the ladder hung out from the side at an angle. Buckley held on to the bottom of it while Smith swung himself onto the rungs. He did not have to climb far, only a few feet, because Orion lay so low in the sea. Buckley warned, “I don’t think she’s going to stay afloat much longer, sir.”

  He got a growl in reply and Smith lifted his legs over the bulwark and stood on the deck below the freighter’s superstructure, just aft of the bridge. He shouted down to the whaler, “I want a search party up here!” He saw Buckley already on the ladder and climbing. Smith turned and mounted the ladder to the bridge.

  A shell had cleared it. The doors at either side were smashed to matchwood, wheel and compass binnacle were twisted wreckage and the glass had gone from the screens. Smith looked out through the empty frames and saw the deck forward to the fo’c’sle littered with papers, books, items of clothing. The crew had dropped them as they ran to the boats. But not all of them had been able to run.

  Buckley said quietly, “Right mess in here, sir.”

  Smith looked down at the blood staining the deck beneath his feet and in two other places on the bridge. He thought, That’s where the helmsman stood and that second patch came from the man on the engine-room telegraph. The third was probably the officer on watch. The blood marked where they had fallen. There were no bodies. He said, “Yes.”

  Buckley followed him as he left the bridge and found the wireless office aft of it. That, too, had been hit so that he could stare out through the shattered bulkhead and across to where Cassandra lay. The wireless was smashed and there was more blood on the deck. A flimsy sheet of paper fluttered one corner on the wind that came in through the shell-hole but was held to the deck by the blood that glued it there. Smith stooped and carefully peeled it free.

  Buckley sucked in his breath and swore softly. “A six-inch armament did this, sir.”

  Smith nodded agreement, head bent and reading. The flimsy was the hastily scrawled draft of a signal. If it had been sent then no one had reported receiving it. It read: “RRR Gunned by raider. ALTMARK…” It went on to give the ship’s position at the time of the attack but no date nor time. Smith showed the signal to Buckley, who sucked in a breath and said, “There’s rumours Altmark carries two six-inch guns, hidden away.”

  Smith had heard that. The guns could be concealed inside the ship’s superstructure, like the old Q-ships. He folded the signal carefully and put it in his pocket. Then he took a breath, led the way out of the wireless office and went to search the cabins in the superstructure.

  There were the remnants of a meal on the long table in the saloon where the officers and the passengers had eaten. Broken crockery littered the deck; the blast from the shelling of the bridge had done that. A water jug rolled back and forth as the hulk rocked sluggishly on the swell. The cabins all showed the signs of hasty packing, clothing strewn untidily. Their doors, open, swung creaking and slamming back and forth as Orion rolled heavily in the swell.

  A member of the search party found them there and reported to Smith, “We’ve been right through her and there’s not a soul aboard, sir. All of ‘em left in a hurry. She must be holed below the water-line but we’ve had some of the hatch-covers off and looked in her holds. She’s loaded with timber. Probably that’s why she’s still afloat, but she’s nearly awash.”

  Smith nodded, “Thank you.” They were in the last cabin. The others had all held items of uniform, a cap or jacket, showing them as belonging to officers of the ship. There was a scarf on the bunk of this one, a square of silk. Smith picked it up.

  Orion lurched and the deck under their feet tilted to a sharper angle. Buckley said anxiously, “I reckon she’s going, sir.”

  Smith said. “Yes.” He turned and left the cabin, the scarf balled inside his clenched fist.

  They could almost have stepped down into the whaler now where it rose and fell on the swell just below the level of the deck. Orion did not have long. The whaler’s crew bent to the oars and drove it pitching back across the heaving sea. Smith sat in the sternsheets of the boat with his head turned on his shoulder and watched the freighter lurch again and settle, the sea washing over her deck between fo’c’sle and superstructure. When he stood again on Cassandra’s bridge he was just in time to see Orion’s bow go under and her stern lift. Then she dived with a sudden, swift smoothness. There was a rumbling as that steep diving angle tore her engines loose from the bed-plates inside her, and a roar of escaping steam. Then she was gone.

  Smith held out the stained flimsy to Kelso and Galloway. “It seems she was shelled by Altmark. Her boarding-party took away everyone aboard, including the wounded and the dead. The living will have added to her cargo.”

  Galloway looked up from the signal. “How many prisoners do you think she has, sir?”

  “Graf Spee sank half a dozen ships and only had a few prisoners aboard when she berthed in Montevideo. The rest must be on Altmark. I think probably close on three hundred of them.”

  Galloway swore under his breath. Kelso was reading the signal again, lips moving, as if he did not want to believe this evidence that he had been wrong about Altmark and Smith right. Galloway asked, “We’re going after her, sir?”

  “Yes. I’ll send a signal to Admiralty but we’ll start now. I think Altmark has a lead of around twenty-four hours.” And any delay would lengthen that time. But which way had she gone? She was headed for Germany, that was obvious, but not directly. No, she would be on a course that would take her northabout and away from North Sea patrols. It would take her to Norway and she could then run down the coast of that country. That decided, there were still two ways she could go, north of Iceland through the Denmark Strait, or south of it by the Faroes Passage.

  Galloway, Kelso, Harry Vincent, all of them were waiting for his decision, and if it was wrong it could mean that Altmark would escape with her cargo of British prisoners — and the ignominious end of Smith’s career.

  But he had already decided. Altmark had been six months at sea, would not spin it out any longer than was necessary.

  He said, “Pilot! A course for the Faroes Passage!”

  Cassandra was already under way and now the group waiting on the bridge broke up. Harry Vincent hurried back to his charts, an abashed Kelso scowled out over the screen at Cassandra’s bow throwing back the green spray. Smith sat in his tall chair and was slowly aware of Galloway glancing curiously at him. He realised he still clutched the scarf in his fist, a foot of the coloured silk trailing from between his fingers.

  He crammed it into his pocket. He had given the scarf to his twenty-year-old daughter Sarah on the day he had learned of his appointment to Cassandra. That was just before she had taken passage in Orion from Montevideo to Liverpool. Now she was a prisoner aboard Altmark. If she lived.

  2

  “She could lose us in this! If she came this way!” The voice came complaining and bad-tempered out of the night. That was Lieutenant George Chivers, long, thin and horse-faced, who had the watch. He stood forward, hunched behind the bridge-screen, and had bawled the words at young Midshipman Appleby at his side. Smith caught them, whipped back to him on the wind as he fought his way against it, coming up from his sea cabin and heading for his tall chair at the front of the bridge.
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  The storm had worked up all through the previous day with the clouds hanging leaden-bellied and never a sight of the sun. Now the night was pitch dark, the wind screaming and hurling sheets of rain that rattled on the oilskins of the men on the bridge, stung and then numbed their faces.

  Smith saw the big seas washing green over Cassandra’s bow and sweeping aft past the gun forward of the bridge. Ships of her class were notorious for shipping the seas forward in any bad weather. But he thought she was riding them well, like a lady. He had made demands on her since she had steamed away from Orion but she had met them all and was meeting this latest. Chivers had already asked once in this watch if he could reduce speed because of the weather and Smith had refused his request. They could not slacken now.

  He brought up against the chair, climbed into it and shouted, “Morning, Mr Chivers!”

  “Morning, sir!” Chivers’ long face was gloomy but that was his natural cast of countenance. Smith knew he was a dependable officer. He had wanted to reduce speed because he thought Cassandra could not stand it. Smith knew she could.

  Thirty-six hours had passed since the sinking of Orion. Twelve of those had been lost while Cassandra was diverted by a signal from Admiralty to investigate a reported sighting of Altmark that proved to be a neutral tanker. But now Cassandra was passing between Iceland and the Faroes.

  Smith thought that Altmark could be close — if he had anticipated correctly. Chivers had expressed doubt, but not of the possibility of Altmark being in these waters rather than a German port. Smith’s officers now knew he had been right about that — and were they regarding him differently? He shrugged. As to whether they were close to Altmark now — he had taken a gamble, anyway, or a calculated risk. And, again as Chivers said, they could still miss her in this appalling visibility.

  Smith had slept fitfully, fully clothed, and had awoken early — the change of watch was not due for another ten minutes — the worry dragging him from his bunk. He reached for his oilskins.

  Was Sarah alive? Was she aboard Altmark?

  While a part of his mind wrestled with those questions, thoughts of his daughter triggered others. He recalled again that overheard snatch of conversation: “Twenty years on the beach!” But there had been more: “Rumours are that he was always a success with the girls, too much for his career. He was shacked up with some American floozie in Montevideo!”

  That had annoyed Smith because he did not believe it was true; he was not a ladies’ man. The word “floozie” had enraged him. Hannah Fitzsimmons was a journalist and war correspondent for whom he had gratitude, affection, respect — and lust, he admitted that.

  What had happened between himself and Hannah had just — happened. He did not regret that. He had left her in Montevideo but she planned soon to return to the States and then Europe. She had said huskily, straddling him in the bed, his hands on her breasts, “Then I’ll look you up.”

  Smith was divorced in 1922 and had not seen his daughter Sarah for seventeen years. She had lived with her mother and German stepfather in Berlin but had to flee from the Nazis in the summer of 1939. She went to Warsaw seeking Smith who had gone there on an Intelligence mission but missed him by hours. Then the Wehrmacht had invaded Poland.

  Hannah Fitzsimmons, who was in Warsaw on an assignment, befriended Sarah and got her out of Poland. Hannah knew Smith, who had earlier saved her from a firing-squad in Spain, and she wanted to see him again. So much so that she went with the girl to the Admiralty in London, where Sarah produced her passport and birth certificate and established that she was Smith’s daughter. They learned he was in the office of the Naval Attaché in Montevideo — and followed him there. He had little time to get to know Sarah before she sailed in Orion and Cassandra claimed him.

  He pulled his mind away from thoughts of Hannah’s slim body and long legs, stared out into the murk of driving spray and rain and saw nothing. He glanced sideways at the other figures hunched miserably on the bridge. The seaman who was the messenger, the signalman and the lookouts…Young Appleby’s oilskins, a sight too big for him, hung almost to the bridge gratings. Smith shouted against the wind, “Anyone know who Cassandra was?”

  Chivers peered at him, incredulous at the question at this time. He did not answer. But after a moment Appleby ventured, “I think she was a goddess, sir, and Apollo gave her the gift of prophecy in return for her favours. But when she didn’t come through he ruled that her prophecies would never be believed.”

  Smith grinned at him, “Good enough.” He recalled that Appleby had not applied for a transfer out of the ship when Smith became her captain, when every other officer had done so. Smith thought wrily, He’s young. Give him time to get up his courage. And grinned again.

  So he and Cassandra were a pair: dug-outs, relics from a time past. And his prophecies weren’t believed. He had told his officers that Altmark would still be at sea because Hitler would have claimed a propaganda victory if she had succeeded in getting back to Germany. Kelso and the others had been doubtful, barely polite or subtly sarcastic. Had that changed now? Or did they still regard him as a dug-out who had been right for once?

  The watch would change soon. The dawn was near though there was no lightening of the darkness, the wind howled its fury and the rain drove in. Chivers stamped back and forth across the bridge to try to warm himself and Appleby moved out to the wing. Smith was left alone with his thoughts and his daughter was foremost among them.

  They had met in Montevideo as strangers but after an initial shyness there was a mutual liking. They had learned a lot about each other in the few days they had together but an element of that strangeness remained, for Smith at any rate — a lone man. Then she had told him, “You have a job to do here but I haven’t.” So she booked her berth in Orion, returning to Britain. “I’ll join the Wrens or drive an ambulance. Anything. We’ve got to win this war and I’m not helping by lazing around out here.”

  He knew her well enough already not to argue when she took that kind of stand. But now he wondered again, tormented, was Sarah alive?

  ***

  Appleby was young and looked younger, short and pink-cheeked. Now he was cold, wet around the neck where the spray had soaked the towel wrapped around and tucked into the top of his oilskins, but he did not complain. That had been drummed into him. Like Galloway, he came from an old naval family, his ancestors for several generations being captains. None of them had shown brilliance but had fought their way up the ladder by dint of hard work and courage. Appleby was determined to imitate them but he had heard the stories of their courage and in his heart he knew he was not one of them, would never be more than a copy. But most of the time he could forget this.

  He had heard of Smith before he came to command Cassandra. His father and uncles had talked of him, argued about him:

  “…irresponsible, undisciplined, lucky not to have been court martialled.” Or: “plenty of guts, fine seaman, ready to turn a blind eye and chance his arm.” Then there were the other officers aboard Cassandra. She was Appleby’s first ship and they were as gods to him. Every one of them was hostile to Smith and had applied for a transfer out of the ship. Surely they couldn’t all be wrong?

  Out on the wing of the bridge was the port side lookout, Ordinary Seaman Nisbet. He came of a family of itinerant labourers. Unemployed he had joined the Navy out of hunger. He complained bitterly at every opportunity and now grumbled at Appleby: “…every soddin’ watch I stand in this flaming ship it pisses down. And the bloody old cow shouldn’t be at sea this weather with an open bridge. Should be glassed in…” He clung with one arm locked around a stanchion to hold him steady as he swept the sea from bow to stern with the big binoculars and his voice droned on, whining monotonously.

  Until it wore down Appleby’s patience and nervousness and he snapped, “Oh, shut up, man!”

  Nisbet was silent as Appleby staggered away across the bridge, then started to mutter under his breath again.

  Buckley appeared at S
mith’s elbow. “Coffee, sir.”

  “Thank you.” Smith took the thick china mug and cradled it in his cupped hands, feeling the heat. Buckley moved around the bridge, collecting from the shelf under the screen the other, empty mugs that had accumulated during the night.

  “Ship on the port bow!” Nisbet yelled it from the wing of the bridge, one hand holding the big binoculars to his eyes, the other outstretched and pointing. Smith lifted his own glasses and looked out along the bearing, saw the ship just a shadow out there in the night. His hand fumbled for the button under the screen and thumbed it so the alarms sounded throughout the ship, calling the crew to their action stations.

  Smith ordered, “Port ten! Challenge!” And as Cassandra’s bow swung, turning towards the stranger, the signalman on the searchlight worked the clacking shutter, blinking out the question: “What ship is that?”

  Smith had to challenge because the other ship might well be friendly. At the same time he was grimly aware that if she was an enemy she could assume that any other ship out here was British. And Altmark was rumoured to mount a pair of 6-inch guns. Buckley appeared at his side, thrusting the steel helmet at Smith. He put it on in exchange for his cap and thrust that at Buckley.

  Chivers said, “D’ye think it’s —”

  Smith broke in, “Can’t see in this visibility, but if it is Altmark we’ll be ready for her.” He was aware of running figures on the deck below him and aft, saw the first men struggling towards the forward 6-inch gun on the fo’c’sle, clinging to the lifelines and up to their waists in water as a wave swept in over the bow.

  Ordinary Seaman Dobson was eighteen years old and still half asleep. He had rolled his lanky, bony body out of his hammock as the alarms sounded, for a second or two thinking that this was just the usual call to Dawn Action Stations but then he realised this was not routine. Cassandra was preparing to fight. He ran aft, heading for where the damage control party mustered, his station in action. He still could not believe the call was true. He had been just four months at sea, seen no fighting in that time and had loudly bemoaned the fact.