Then suddenly Sedel raised his hand to his lips. A whistle shrilled out, loud and insistent above the throb of the engines. The captain turned towards him and then his eyes fell to the thing in Sedel’s hands. Almost involuntarily his hands rose above his head. Then suddenly he swung his right at Sedel’s chin. But the German had anticipated the blow. He stepped back, quickly, precisely, and then deliberately fired two shots. The captain never recovered from his lunge, but plunged straight on and fetched up, sprawled across the railings of the bridge. Then slowly his body slipped from sight, his cap tilted drunkenly over his eyes.
Zero hour! The thing had been planned and I could imagine the precision with which it was executed. The wireless operator would look up as the door of his cabin opened. If he resisted, he would be ruthlessly shot down like the captain. If not … Already they were herding the members of the crew on the fo’c’sle. Several passed under guard along the well deck within a few feet of us. They were searched and bundled into one of the fo’c’sle cabins. Only the engine-room crew were left. Presumably a guard had been placed over them. Meantime, the ship had changed course and the sun was now on the starboard bow.
The minutes ticked slowly by. I thought Schmidt would never give the word to go into action. But I understood the reason for delay. The farther we got off our course in the direction of Germany, the clearer the proof of guilt. There was a great deal of movement on the fo’c’sle. In the bustle of the ship’s capture I had endeavoured to keep check on the number of volunteers now for’ard. As far as I could tell there were eight, besides Sedel and Marburg. That left only two unaccounted for, and they would presumably be looking after the engine-room.
A man came hurrying down from the bridge with a small bundle under his arm. He stopped at the foot of the mast and looped it to a halyard. Then he hauled the bundle up and the Nazi swastika flag was broken out at the masthead. There was a great cheer from the fo’c’sle at this. And then there was the sound of orders being issued and a moment later two of the men came hurrying down from the bridge. They went straight to the trapdoor leading to the hold.
‘Get them covered,’ I heard Schmidt say. My hand closed round the trigger of my gun. The cold feel of the steel was somehow comfortingly impersonal. I held the two of them in my sights. ‘Fire!’ came Schmidt’s voice. I heard the rat-a-tat-tat of David’s gun as I pressed my trigger. The gun chattered in my hand. Both men were thrown against the side with the force of the twofold burst of fire.
Then the whole tank rocked and my ear drums sang as Schmidt fired the gun. Through the narrow aperture of my sights I saw the whole of the port side of the bridge, where the captain had so recently been shot, explode. The flash of the explosion seemed a part of this detonation above my head. The whole side of the bridge burst into fragments. Then the structure subsided gently until it hung draped against the more solidly constructed deck housing. A second explosion followed almost immediately. This time the shot was fired at the starboard side of the bridge, but only the extreme edge of it was carried away.
There followed a complete and startled silence, so that above the throb of the engines I heard a gull screaming imprecations at the disturbance. Then, as though some vitalising force had suddenly brought the ship to life again, it echoed with shouts and the running of feet. Two men swung themselves down the broken superstructure of the bridge, heavy service revolvers swinging from their lanyards.
‘Give them a few warning bursts,’ Schmidt ordered.
We did so, and the two of them dived for cover. The hatch of the gun turret clanged above my head as Schmidt threw it open. ‘I wish to speak to Baron Marburg,’ he shouted.
No one answered him.
‘Unless he comes forward in ten seconds,’ Schmidt called out, ‘I shall put another shell into the bridge.’
I could hear him counting softly to himself. The now derelict-seeming superstructure of the bridge was lifeless. Eight — nine — ten. Once again the tank bucked to the kick of the gun. This time the whole of the starboard end of the bridge collapsed into a mass of twisted wreckage.
‘Do you want me to demolish the whole forward part of the ship bit by bit?’ Schmidt called out.
But Marburg had already made his appearance. He was at the port end of the bridge, his heavy body in silhouette against the sun. ‘Who are you and what do you want?’ The question was put in a cold dispassionate voice. I think at that moment I admired the man. I could well imagine the shock that burst of fire must have been to him, when everything had appeared to be going according to plan. Yet there was no tremor in his voice. He might have been addressing a board meeting.
‘My name is Franz Schmidt,’ came the reply from above my head. ‘I think you may remember it in connection with a new type of diesel engine. As you will realise, we control this ship. We have plenty of ammunition and we can quite easily blast the whole of the upper works of the ship away. As a last resort, of course, we have the means of blowing the ship up.’
‘What do you want?’ As he asked this question Marburg glanced over his shoulder as though to speak to someone. Then he added, ‘I understand the strength of your position. Do you want us to put back to England?’
‘There is no need for that,’ Schmidt replied. ‘I want you to send the crew down into the well deck. They are to come down one by one, and remember that I know them all by sight.’
‘Very well, I will do that.’ Marburg disappeared. We waited anxiously. I was afraid that they would try driving the crew in front of them as a shield. I knew we could not afford to be squeamish, but my whole being revolted at the idea of shooting innocent neutrals down in cold blood, however imperative the reason.
‘Keep the approaches to the well deck covered,’ came Schmidt’s voice.
I, too, had seen the movement of a man’s head that had prompted the warning. The next instant four of the volunteers dashed forward, two from either side of the deck houses. Their intention was to jump on to the well deck. But they hadn’t a chance. Before they had covered the few feet of open deck they fell, riddled with bullets. And to add point to their death Schmidt fired another round at the bridge, demolishing a further section on the port side.
‘Now perhaps you will send the prisoners singly into the well deck?’
After a few moments the first of the crew appeared. Schmidt spoke rapidly in Norwegian. The man came down to the well deck and stopped at a point where he was covered by our guns. He was followed by eight others. Schmidt then spoke for several minutes. Though I did not understand a word of what he was saying, I guessed that he was explaining the situation to them and giving them instructions. At length he dismissed them.
They immediately made their way aft. Three of them had taken guns from the dead Germans. I learned later that one of them was killed in a fight with the two engine-room guards. Both of the Germans were killed. A moment later the donkey engine came to life.
My task of keeping watch on the for’ard part of the ship prevented me from seeing what was happening aft. But I knew well enough what Schmidt’s intention was. He was getting the torpedo boat unshipped. The work took more than a quarter of an hour. By the time he announced that it was completed and the boat lowered over the side, I had sighted what I instantly knew Marburg had sighted when he had spoken with us from the bridge. Beyond the broken superstructure I made out the sharp black bows of a destroyer. The huge wave at her bow told of the engines running at full speed. Close behind her came a second.
Schmidt dropped into the interior of the tank. He had seen the danger. ‘We have only just time,’ he said. ‘Freya, get out as quickly as you can. Get the engine started. You,’ he said to me, ‘and Shiel will follow. Take a drum of ammunition each. They fit the guns on the boat. I’ll keep the bridge occupied.’