The ship heeled, throwing Lange off balance and tumbling him against the rail. But even as she spun, the Sydney turned to flank her and smashed home another broadside. Hits scored amidships. The wireless room went sky-high, with everyone and everything inside. Emden was out of touch now. The stokers in the hold were trapped—the fires they had coaled continued to burn. Shovels melted in their hands.
Emden drove on. She returned one solid broadside and made her enemy reel. But it was not enough. The Sydney flanked her, turning as she did, forcing her to the left—left— westward against the reef, towards North Keeling.
The end was inevitable. The shells smashed on board. Gun rooms, fire decks, caved. The armor on the torpedo flat held, but the crash of shells against it drove most of the crew mad. Franz von Hohenzollern had all he could do to keep them in some sort of control. Perhaps it was fortunate that there was a straight reef of coral to the north. The Emden drove on it and lining. She could not back out. She could not go ahead.
Von Mueller put his elbows on the bridge rail. His fists were clenched. "Herr Gott! Herr Gott! I have done my best! Must there be more?"
Leutnant Lange lay slammed, twisted amid the wreckage of the railing, a pipe through his chest and his belly ripped open far down below the navel.
There was nothing more for him.
Nor would Herman Schultz ever again lay eyes on the little bungalow in Koaochow Road. The galley was a mass of splintered wreckage, and Herman's body rolled, oblivious, on what remained of the hot stove. Only a yellow tabby cat crouched, shivering in a miraculously untouched corner.