"Von Guerard, Herr Kapitan—foremast. The ship I reported before is much closer now, and she is not—I repeat not —the Buresk."
"What?" Von Mueller was startled. "How do you make her, Anton?"
"Kapitan"—von Guerard's voice was apologetic, as though he felt it somehow his fault—"she has tall yellow masts, like an English warship, and from this angle at least, only a single funnel. She may have more, but if she does they're so lined up that I can't see them. Offhand, I would judge her a cruiser of the Newcastle class—Just a moment, Kapitan! She has just broken out battle flags and the British white ensign!"
Von Mueller thought quickly. ^'Newvcastle class?" he said. "In that case we're fairly evenly matched, though there's no question we've a fight on our hands. Better come down, Anton, and grab some food quickly. We'll all be at battle stations and in real action shortly."
Von Mueller banged up the phone and swung to the officer on duty—Rudi Voss, at that moment. "Call the engine room," he commanded, "and tell them I want full steam at once. This is real action. Call all hands to battle stations and weigh anchor. If Kapitanleutnant von Muecke and his party have not returned on board within ten minutes we will have to go without them—we cannot wait longer than that."
With his own hand he blew the recall siren that so startled von Muecke on shore. With his other hand he caught up the intercommunication phone and pressed a buzzer.
"Vogel!" he said into the telephone. "Bring my breakfast up here!" A few minutes later he pulled the siren once more.
On shore the whistle shivered the palms. "We can't wait much longer," von Mueller commented. If we stay here, we'll be caught like rats in a trap. Our only choice IS to go out and fight—and so far as I am concerned, I would like nothing better. I didn't take this command just to step on helpless merchantmen. That's the duty we have been given so far. But now we have a chance to challenge someone who will fight back. Let's give a good account of ourselves!"
At the dock there was still no sign of activity.
"Very well," said von Mueller grimly. "I'm sorry, Helmuth, but we can't wait. Take care of yourselves! Quartermaster, run up our battle flags and the ensign."
"Jawohl, Kapitan!" the seaman replied.
They were past the mouth of the harbor and steaming out toward the incoming enemy when von Mueller turned for a last look back. At that distance he could not be sure of them as individuals, but a number of men were running out on the dock. Unfortunately, there was no chance now of turning back. He knew they could not see him, but he waved automatically.
"I'm sorry, Helmuth," he muttered, "but this is the way it is!" He faced about abruptly and did not look back again.
That was about nine thirty. Miraculously, almost, steam was up in all boilers. Emden would need that. And now even from shore it was clear that the stranger was a battle cruiser. In fact, from his place on the bridge von Mueller could see that she was definitely not of the Newcastle class. Yet there was something curiously familiar about her.
"What do you make of her, Rudi?" he asked.
''That's the Sydney," Voss replied without hesitation.
"Oh, I am sorry!" von Mueller exclaimed.
"Don't be, Kapitan," replied Voss harshly, "and don't worry about me!"
"I won't—since you assure me," von Mueller said. "I would not, anyway, Rudi. We have served together. I have confidence in you."
"Thank you, Kapitan," the lieutenant replied.
The Sydney came in at a dead bore. Emden managed to come out past the reefs. At ten forty in the morning they were at 9400 meters' range, and opened fire.
Karl von Mueller knew that the Englishman—or perhaps more accurately, the Australian—carried heavier fire power. The Emden's heaviest guns were 4.5's. Those of the Sydney were 5.9's, giving her an advantage of a mile or more, plus much heavier hitting power. But there was nothing else, in honor, to do. Go out and fight.
When they reached the open sea, it was the Emden who got in the first blow. From the end of the pier von Muecke and his party watched helplessly, in an agony of despair.
The first salvo from the Emden's forward guns seemed to strike home. From the bridge von Mueller noted some hits amidships and in the upper superstructure. But apparently they were not enough to cripple the other cruiser. The Englishman answered, and all at once the flanks of the Emden seemed to give way. Men cried out in honest hurt—such agony they had not known before.
In the torpedo flat, aft and below decks, Franz von Hohenzollern and his crew stood by their torpedo tubes, unable to see any of what was happening; only able to wait and wonder if they would be called upon, or if all they would ever see of the action would be the shell that blasted them. Aloft, in the conning tower, over the bridge, von Mueller, Gaede of gunnery, Witthoeft, chief torpedo and tactical officer, and Zimmerman, the gunner's' assistant, directed the action. Theirs was necessarily the battle side. On the "fire lee" side, away from the action, were the navigator, Gropius, the helmsman, and the signalman. On the quarterdeck von Levetzow was at the after gun control. Geerdes commanded the forward batteries. Von Guerard was in the fore crow's-nest with a signalman to observe the effect of the Emden's fire and communicate the apparent results to the bridge.
On shore von Muecke cursed helplessly as he saw the first shots from the Englishman find their mark. But the Emden was yet far from incapacitated. Another salvo slammed from her starboard batteries, and another almost immediately followed. The first was high and went over the Sydney. So did most of the second. But one shell was a definite hit on the bridge and carried away the Australian range finder and all of his directive gear. After that the Sydney's gunners had to sight their weapons as they would a shotgun, by guess and by God. Yet they were effective once they had settled in. Still, the condition of the seas made gunlaying difficult. The swells were long and high, once they were clear of the island, and both ships rose and swooped with them, so that it was hard for the gunners to get in a solid hit. It was necessary for them to "catch their bird on the rise," so to speak; to fire just at the instant the other ship had reached the top of a wave.
Nevertheless, hits were made—damaging hits. The first hit on the Emden carried away the second turret entirely, killing all the men inside instantly. The second struck near the conning tower. Von Mueller and his companions were hurled in a heap together in a corner. Von Mueller was the first to rise. Immediately, and to his horror, he saw that the helmsman, Monkedeik, was wounded. The man's left arm had been shredded from shoulder to wrist. The Captain leaped forward quickly and caught the bloody wheel.
"Get that arm down to the surgeon," he commanded. "We'll take care of things here."
The sailor looked at his arm dully. "It doesn't hurt, Kapitan," he said. "Down there is no safer than here. I can still steer. Let me stay."
"Von Wittheoft," said the Captain, "break out the first-aid kit and bind this man up. Anyone with that much courage should not be denied. The rest of you get below and see what damage has been done."
He had scarcely finished speaking when a second shell from the Englishman crashed aboard between the fo'c'sle and the forward gun. Bunte Lange was in charge there. He went sprawling over against the rail, but miraculously did not lose consciousness. He picked himself up and surveyed the wreckage. The guns were mangled. Lange wiped what he thought was sweat from his face and was only vaguely surprised to see that it was blood-red.
Shakily he turned aft. He could do no good where he was, and the portside guns could not be brought to bear unless the Emden fell back and crossed over the other ship's wake. On the bridge Karl von Mueller realized the same thing at the selfsame instant, and relayed orders to the engine room by voice tube—the main telegraph having been shot away—to cut sharply to low speed on all engines, then cut starboard power and go full ahead on both portside shafts.