.
V. Gott mit Uns
November 1914
Gott mit Uns [God Be with Us]—the motto of the Knights of the Swan, founded by Frederick II of Brandenburg in 1443. Later restored by Frederick William IV of Prussia, in 1843.
After their strike at Penang the Emden stood swiftly back up and across the Malacca strait, north by west, until she had cleared the tip of Sumatra, where she came about again and stood southeastward on a course that would carry them down past Simalur. Less than twenty-four hours later they met their comrades in the Buresk at the appointed rendezvous, off Banjak. The Markomannia, however, which they had hoped to meet in the same waters, was not there. Nor did they ever see her again. They could only conclude that she must have been sunk.
That was a Saturday, but too late in the day for more than informal celebrations. On Sunday, von Mueller felt that the men of both ships had earned a brief respite and announced that only those duties essential to the safety of both ships would be required. The customary Sunday services would be held, of course, after which there would be certain ceremonies lasting but a few moments. But until then, and after, their time would be their own, to utilize as they pleased. He regretted that no shore leave was possible, but in time of war all must understand that one did the best one could with such opportunities as came to hand. In recognition of the limitations of their situation the wardrooms of both ships would be open freely to all officers. For the men there would be beer. Only those who abused the privilege would be refused.
The announcement was greeted with enthusiasm. During the evening the officers exchanged convivial visits; the crews fraternized. On the following morning few felt like rolling out of their hammocks before church call, and the usual Sabbath Day services were solemn as ever. When that was done the announced ceremonies were held, and proved to be the list of promotions and advancements, some as a matter of routine, time in service, but many as a result of the crew's performance during the recent brief actions. The rest of the day was given over to due celebration of such promotions and the proper wetting down of new stripes.
But Monday was a different matter. At midnight both vessels weighed and stood slowly southeastward toward the Pogg)' Islands. At sunrise the gongs clanged, calling all hands to coaling duty once more, and many an aching head spent many a miserable hour at the chore. Toward midday they were visited by a Dutch government officer in a bright white launch and a limp white suit, who came to make sure that they were outside the three-mile limit. When he was reassured he consented to accept a whisky and soda in the wardroom, and since there were a number of officers who could also use a drink themselves—and since he was not loath to accept a drink with each—it was late in the afternoon when they poured him into his launch and headed it back toward Padang. Whether it ever reached there or not was never known, but all in all, the day was marred by only two things. The first was so minor that it even brought laughter in the wardroom when they heard it from the Dutchman. Portugal, it seemed, had formally declared war on Germany, and must now be counted among their enemies. The second was more serious. In Franz von Hohenzollern's coaling division a coal sling had broken at the height of its swing, and the load of sacked coal, crashing on deck, had broken the left leg of Torpedo Obermatrose Possehl, one of the torpedo crew's most valued men. It was the first and only casualty of any sort, in or out of action, that had touched the ship since her departure from Tsingtao!
They finished coaling just before dusk, cast off, and headed due south, following, as customary, a fictitious course until they were out of sight of land, when they bore eastward toward Sunda Strait, where it was hoped that a few more unwary ships might be found passing.
But Sunda proved unproductive, and though they cruised for some time in and out of that highway of all nations, in view of Krakatoa, they had no luck. British shipping apparently had been frightened from those seas by reports of their presence, and indeed, conversations between those two old archenemies of theirs, the Hampshire and the Minotaur, suggested that the search was converging upon them. Karl von Mueller would have liked to give it a few more days trial. But prudence was the better part of valor. He pored over his charts.
"Set a course southwest, two two six," he ordered.
"Two two six. Jawohl, Herr Kapitan!" replied the officer of the watch, and the Emden heeled and turned and started the long run that might lead them around the Cape of Good Hope, into the South Atlantic.
Everyone hoped so, for that would bring them that much nearer home. But von Mueller had plans for a stop en route, and the plan was not entirely new. Long since, he had foreseen the day when such a trial would be necessary to the morale of both officers and men. To sneak from the Indian Ocean with nothing to their credit but a few dozen helpless merchantmen stopped and robbed would be ignominy that would haunt them to their graves. Given a resounding victory and an honest flight before overwhelming pursuit, they could hold up their heads. In a sense it was something like the fox who raided the chicken coop and then outwitted the hounds. The strike at Madras, the blow at Penang, had been gestures in that direction. But they had been too successful. They had left the British bewildered. Obviously they could not conquer all British forces in those waters with a single light cruiser. But they could and had disrupted much of the enemy's shipping to the east. The enemy was on the prowl in search of them. But his search had been disorganized and spattered. One more sharp blow, unlocked for, would upset his calculations even more and set him to racing from Australia to India and down to Africa and back again, looking for a will-o-the-wisp. All to no purpose, as the Emden would long since have slipped into the South Atlantic, where, under orders from home, she could operate as needed!
But where was such a target? Singapore? It would be a long run through narrow neutral waters. Sarawak? That would be even worse. Beyond those two there was nothing to the north that they could hope to reach. But there was a target to the southward—Direction Island, in the Cocos-Keeling group—where the cables from Africa and India and Australia crossed, and where there was a major wireless installation, in touch with half the world. Such a blow would be even greater than a spectacular strike at Singapore, for it could cut communications in three quarters of the globe.
That voyage toward the south and west was no pleasure cruise. Once clear of Sunda Strait, they met the full sweep of the late autumnal monsoons that blew across the Indian Ocean with no stick or stone for a thousand miles and more to break their force. The winds came steadily from starboard, and the seas ran heavily with them, with the result that the Emden rolled and plunged, and kicked and bucked.
In the officers' galley it brought wails of protest from Herman. "How even can I keep hot the coffee if you make like this the ship?" he demanded.
But there were others, too, who had their hands full. In the stokehold there were ugly burns and blisters as the men, teetering with loaded shovels and seeking to find the right moment to scatter coal upon the fires, were sometimes flung against the furnace doors. Sometimes, too, down there, the fires themselves would lift from the grates with a sudden surge, and then thump down with a nrlnmip as the ship began to lift out of the sea's trough. On such occasions the furnace doors would blow open in the stokers' faces and the flames lick out to singe their hair and beards, while in the boiler room above, the engineers on duty would hold on to whatever pipe or valve was handiest to keep from falling, praying silently that the tubes would not blow. On deck it was scarcely possible for a sailor to pass from aft to forward or return without the aid of ropes. On the bridge there were wisps and mists and flung spindrift and stinging spray that kept fogging glasses, and of them all only Kapitan von Mueller seemed to know exactly where they were. Somewhere out in those waters, south of Sumatra but yet well out in the Indian Ocean, they all knew that they should meet the Exford. But there was scarcely a man among them who could say at what spot—or could find it if he knew.