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  Hechler ducked his head beneath the canvas hood which hid the light of the chart-table and peered searchingly at Gudegast's neat calculations, bearings and fixes. Like his artwork, each pencilled note or figure was clear and delicate. Perhaps a frustrated artist from another age lurked inside his rugged frame. In his shining oilskin he looked like a sea-creature which had unexpectedly come aboard.

  Theil joined him by the chart. The shore batteries are there sir. Our main armament is alerted and will be kept informed of any change of intelligence.'

  From far beyond the hood's shelter Hechler heard the scrape of steel as the aircraft catapult was manoeuvred around ready to fire off the first float-plane. Each had a crew of two, and apart from cannon and machine-guns would today be armed with two heavy bombs.

  Thinking aloud Hechler said, That is the railway station. We are ordered to destroy it. Ivan will bring up reinforcements by that route. We'll give him a headache.'

  He withdrew from the hood and climbed on to the forward gratings to let the salt air sting away any lurking weariness. He thought of his men, sitting and crouching through his command. Some able to see the heaving water like himself, others confined to their armoured turrets, waiting to feed the big eight-inch guns, or down in the bowels of the engine- and boiler-rooms, deafened by the din of machinery and fans, watching dials or each other. Trying not to think of a shell or torpedo changing their roaring world into a merciless inferno.

  In the streets of Kiel or some occupied seaport you would not notice many of them as individuals, Hechler thought. It was a pity the people at home could not see them here, in their environment. It might give them heart and perhaps some hope.

  Theil said quietly, Time, sir.'

  Hechler nodded. Glad they were committed. Alter course. Full ahead, all engines.' For a second his guise fell away and he added softly, 'Another time, Viktor, but the same enemy, eh?'

  Fifteen minutes later the ship surged away from the mist to greet the first weak sunlight like an enraged tiger.

  As the four main turrets swivelled soundlessly on to the precribed bearing, all eight guns opened fire.

  'Alter course, steer two-three-zero!' Hechler lifted his eyes from the gyro-compass repeater and tensed as the sea lifted and boiled into a solid cone of white froth some cable's length beyond the port bow.

  He felt the deck tilt as the order was passed to the wheelhouse, the instant response as the raked stem bit into the glittering water. The forward turrets swung slightly to compensate for the sudden change of direction and then each pair of guns recoiled in turn, the shock-wave whipping back over the bridge, hot and acrid as the shells tore towards the land.

  Hechler waited for the hull to steady and then raised his glasses once more. The land was blurred with smoke, the colour drained out of it by the hard, silver sunlight. Shell-bursts pockmarked the sky where the ship's three Arado float-planes ducked and dived over their targets, and the fall of the cruiser's shells was marked by great smokestains, solid and unmoving. They made the landscape look dirty, fouled, he thought vaguely.

  Tracer lifted from the rubble of some dwellings near the waterfront, and he guessed that the army were using their fire to retake their old positions, the bitter house-to-house fighting which was an infantryman's lot.

  Hechler thought briefly of his father, and the unexpected distraction disturbed him. He was unused to having his mind shifted off-course when he needed it most.

  His father had been a soldier in the Great War, and had been wounded several times on the Western Front until he had been badly gassed and sent home, a coughing, broken wreck of a man. In clear moments he had described war at close quarters, and had chilled his family with tales of wiring parties in no-man's-land, raids on enemy trenches armed with sharpened spades, nailed clubs and long knives. No time to load a rifle, and a bayonet was next to useless in a hand-to-hand encounter, he had said. You could smell your enemy, feel his strength, his fear as you tried to kill him with the same methods they had used centuries earlier.

  At sea you rarely saw the enemy. Gun flashes, the fall of shot, a shadow against the moonlight or fixed in a range-finder. It was better that way. Cleaner.

  A great gout of fire, bright orange and tinged with red, erupted Irom the shore and Theil, who had a handset jammed beneath his cap, shouted, 'Railway station., sir!'

  A seaman nudged his friend and they grinned at one another. The young officer, Leutnant Jaeger, shaded his eyes to look up at the control station with its narrow observation slits, like the visor of a massive helmet. He did not even duck as something whistled above the bridge and Hechler saw a seasoned petty officer glare at him behind his back. He probably wanted him to get down; any fool could die a hero.

  'Aircraft, sir! Bearing red-one-one-oh! Angle of sight three-zero!'

  The secondary armament were already swivelling round on their sponsons and in their small turrets, tracking the tiny, metallic dots which had suddenly appeared out of the smoky haze.

  Hechler thought of Kroll, the gunnery officer, and was glad of his efficiency. Kroll, lean, tight-mouthed and devoid of any sense of humour, was a hard man to serve. Constant drills in every kind of exercise, switching crews around with loading numbers Irom the magazine and cursing any officer or seaman who failed to respond to his immediate satisfaction, had nevertheless made the ship a living example to many others.

  The anti-aircraft guns and then the lighter automatic weapons clattered into life, the bright tracer streaking across the sea and knitting together in a vivid mesh of fire through which the approaching planes would have to fly.

  One of the escorting destroyers was turning in a steep welter of foam, an oily screen of smoke trailing astern of her as she headed closer to her big consort, her own guns hammering sharply to join the din.

  Prinz Luitpold's main armament recoiled again. Hechler had lost count of the number of rounds they had fired, and he heard the abbreviated whistle of the shells as they ripped towards the target.

  'Alter course. Steer due west.' Hechler let his glasses drop to his chest as Gudegast passed his orders through the brass-mouthed voice-pipe by the compass.

  'Two-seven zero, sir.' The rest of his words were drowned by the throaty roar of engines, and the increasing bang and clatter of gunfire as the enemy planes flashed over the water,

  Hechler did not see which one straddled the destroyer, but the explosion just abaft her squat funnel made a searing flash and flung fragments high into the air even while the ship staggered round in another turn, her deck laid bare as she tilted over. Another great explosion blasted her from between decks and fire spread along one side like lava, masking her hull in steam and surrounding her struggle with bright feathers of spray from falling debris. Distance hid the sound of her destruction but it was clear enough for anyone to see.

  Two of the Russian aircraft were weaving away, their own wounds revealed by smoking trails as tracer darted after them, and the sky around them was filled with drifting shell-bursts.

  Gudegast said thickly, 'She's going! God, look at her!'

  Hechler watched the destroyer as she began to settle down. One boat was in the water, but was carried away from her side by the swell with just a handful of men aboard. Floats were dotted about, but the first two explosions had obviously taken a heavy toll of life. Hechler had met the destroyer's captain at several conferences. It was a moment dreaded by every commander. Abandon ship. Even thinking the words was like a surrender.

  Two more Russian planes roared over the listing vessel, and the sea around the solitary boat was torn apart by machine-gun fire. Hechler felt his stomach muscles contract, but made himself watch as the tiny, unreal figures clawed at the air or floundered in the swell before they were cut down.

  Theil hurried to his side. 'One of the Arados is finished, sir!'

  They looked at each other. Theil's voice was harsh; his words were not just a report. They sounded disbelieving, like an accusation.

  Hechler strode across the bridge,
his boots scraping on empty cartridge cases from a machine-gun, and watched the pall of smoke beyond the waterfront. The float-plane must have been hit just as she had released her two bombs and had exploded directly above them.

  'Signal from escort, sir! Request permission to pick up survivors.'

  Hechler glanced at jaeger's handsome face. He had not yet learned how to conceal his emotions, Hechler thought; his eyes looked wild, full of pain for the men who were dying out there.

  It was an additional, unwanted drama. The remaining destroyer's captain knew better, even if the other one was his best friend.

  It could have been his ship. The two after-turrets roared out again and sent a violent shock-wave through the bridge as if they had hit a sandbar. Or it could have been us. It would be no different. You must not even think about it.

  He heard himself reply flatly, 'Denied. Discontinue action.'

  He glanced quickly at his watch, aware of the tension around him, the shock at what had happened so swiftly.

  His voice seemed to move them again, voices called into telephones and pipes, and Gudegast passed his prearranged course to (he wheelhouse. Parts of a pattern. There were things to be checked, not least preparations for another air attack before their own covering fighters flew out to shepherd them to safety.

  Hechler raised his glasses and stared at the mounting curtain of smoke where the railway station and surrounding streets had been under fire. It was already falling away as the cruiser swung on to her new course and threw spray over the forecastle like heavy rain. The signal would be sent, the army would be left to use whatever advantage and breathing space the bombardment had offered. Hechler moved his glasses and saw the stricken destroyer hard on her side, the swell around her smooth and stained with oil. A few heads bobbed in the water, but as the distance increased they seemed without meaning or purpose. I wo aircraft shot down or severely damaged. A small price to pay for a destroyer and her company, he thought bitterly.

  He lowered his glasses and moved to the opposite side to watch I he other destroyer increasing speed to take station again. Nearby he could hear the watchkeepers whispering together while the voice-pipes kept up their constant chatter. Routine and discipline kept men from fretting too much. Later they would remember, but their pain would be mellowed by pride. The legend lived on. They had lost one Arado. Two absent faces at the mess table, telegrams to their homes, and later Hechler would write a letter to each family. Now, as he watched the drifting smoke he was dismayed to realise he could barely remember the faces of the dead airmen.

  A messenger scrambled on to the bridge, wide-eyed and anxious, the first time he had left his armour-plated shell since the guns had opened fire.

  Theil took the signal pad from him and after a quick glance said, 'Priority Two, sir. To await new orders.' Their eyes met.

  Hechler nodded and removed his cap. The air felt clammy against his forehead. He thought suddenly of a bath, hot water and soap, an unbelievable luxury. He wanted to smile, but knew he would be unable to stop*. It was madness. A helplessness which always followed a risk. He glanced up at his ship, the smoke trickling past her funnel-cap and the shivering signal halliards. She was not built to act as a clumsy executioner, a tool for some general who had failed to outwit the enemy's tactics. He thought of the destroyer which would soon come to rest on the bottom, how her survivors would still be floundering about and dying, but still able to see Prinz Luitpold's shadow fading into the mist. Abandoned. In the twinkling of an eye they had become mere statistics.

  He realised that Theil was watching him. Waiting, his features controlled and impassive.

  The signal was brief, but said all that was needed. Fresh orders probably meant they would be ordered away from this battleground. The news would flash through the ship like lightning. It always did. Where to? What mission had been dreamed up this time?

  Hechler gripped the nearest handrail and felt the ship respond to his touch. Like a great beast whose respect had to be constantly earned and won.

  So many shells fired, and each selected target bombarded without damage and without cost to any man aboard. One aircraft was lost, and the others would be retrieved as soon as it was safe to stop the ship and hoist them inboard.

  He felt suddenly angry, contemptuous of the fools who had risked the very survival of this ship for a gesture, one which would and could make no difference.

  'Perhaps we shall be given bigger game to hunt, Viktor.' He looked at him searchingly and saw him flinch. 'Unless some politican has already thought up some wild escapade for us.'

  Theil dropped his voice. I am a sailor, not a man of politics, sir.'

  Hechler touched his arm and saw Jaeger relax as he watched them. 'Sometimes we must be both!' Then he smiled, and felt a kind of recklessness move through him. This ship is a legend. She cannot remain one while she sniffs after fragments left by the army.'

  The two Arados flew over the mastheads and rolled their wings. They had already forgotten. Survival was a great tonic.

  Theil said, 'Normandy, do you think, sir?'

  Hechler walked to the gratings again and rested his hands on the rail below the glass screen. The destroyer was already zigzagging ahead of them, ready to seek out and depth-charge an enemy submarine, although it was unlikely there would be one in this area, he thought.

  He considered Theil's question and pictured his ship charging through the invasion fleets and their supply vessels like an avenger. A proud but short-lived gesture it would be too.

  No, it was something else. He felt a shiver run through him. A war on the defensive could not be won. He looked down at the forecastle, at the two pairs of smoke-grimed guns as they were trained forward again.

  It was what he was chosen for, and why the ship had been built. To fight and to win, out in the open like Scharnhorst or the cruisers of his father's forgotten war.

  Hechler nodded to himself. Nobody would forget his Prinz Luitpold.

  Chapter Two

  Faces of War

  Kapitan zur See Dieter Hechler emptied another cup of strong black coffee and glanced around his spacious day cabin. Sunlight shone brightly through the polished scuttles, and he could hear some of his seamen chattering and laughing as they went about their work on deck.

  The ship felt at peace as she swung to her cable, and it was hard to believe that they had been in action less than two days back, and had seen the destroyer go down.

  Hechler stood up and walked to one of the scuttles. From a corner of his eye he could see Mergel watching his every move, his pen poised over a bulging pad as it had been for an hour or so since they had anchored. Mergel was a petty officer writer and would have made someone a fine secretary had he been a woman, Hechler often thought.

  Even the weather was different. He shaded his eyes and looked towards the shore, the high shelving slope of green headland, the clusters of toy houses which ran all the way down to the water's edge. Untroubled - from a distance anyway.

  Hechler was moved by what he saw. It was the east coast of Denmark, and the port which was set in a great fjord was named Vejle. He smiled sadly. He had visited here several times during the war, and earlier in a training ship, or to holiday with his parents and brother. Happy, carefree days. It gave him a strange feeling to be here again in Prinz Luitpold. Many eyes would be watching the ship, but how would they see her? Would anyone admire her lines, or would they see her only as an extension of the occupation forced on their peaceful country?

  He saw a fuel lighter move away slowly from the side, men staring up at the ship, some soldiers with their weapons slung carelessly on their shoulders, a world apart from the Russian Front, he thought. With the taste of good coffee in his mouth he felt vaguely uneasy, as if he should be doing something useful. Another fuel lighter cast off and followed the first one towards the fjord. Stuck, the chief engineer, would run him to earth eventually to report on his department. Even in harbour there was no obvious rest from routine. Visitors came and went. Reque
sts, demands, questions - it was like being responsible for a small town.

  The thought of going ashore touched something in Hechler and made him eager to leave, if only to smell the land, feel the lush grass beneath his feet.

  He sighed. It was not to be. Not yet anyway.

  He looked at Mergel. 'Have the letters done first, and I'll sign them.' He tried to picture the faces of the two dead airmen. Did such letters ever help, he wondered?

  Mergel gathered up his papers and moved to the door. 'May I ask, sir, will there be leave?'

  Hechler shrugged. 'You will probably know that before I do.' He waited for the door to close. In the ship's crowded world he treasured the moments he could be alone. Alone with his ship perhaps?

  He poured a last cup of coffee and ran his eyes over the pad of signals and news reports again.

  There was some sort of security blanket on Normandy, he decided. Only one thing was certain. The Allies had not been flung back into the sea, but were pushing deeper into France. There was a mention of some possible secret weapon which would soon change all that, and enemy losses were still heavy in the Atlantic due to the aggressive tactics of the U-boats. Hechler bit his lip. Many words, but they said little.

  The sentry opened the door and Theil stepped into the cabin, his cap beneath his arm.

  Hechler gestured to a chair. 'It will be quite a while before the admiral arrives, Viktor.' He had seen the surprise in Theil's eyes, as if he had expected to find his captain unshaven and still in his seagoing gear.

  Theil said, The upper deck is washed down, sir, and the boats are being repainted. The admiral will find no fault in the ship's appearance.'

  Hechler looked away. There it was again. The defensive, bitter note in Theil's tone. As if the ship was his sole responsibility. Hechler pushed the pad of signals towards him. 'Read these, Viktor. They may amuse you.'