Rogue Raider by Nigel Barley Page A

it seemed that nothing had happened.
    â€œA bloody dud,” hissed Lauterbach, clenching his hands about his head.
    Then a blaze of flame ripped abruptly through the ship, engulfing her in a pall of choking yellow and black smoke. Huge chunks of iron rained down, clanging onto their decks and skidding into the sea. They must have hit a magazine. A gust of wind cut through the billows of smog and she was revealed in naked agony, sliced in half. Only mastheads remained above the water.
    â€œFlippin ‘eck.”
    â€œOpen fire on the merchantmen, sir?”
    Von Mueller wheeled round, aghast. “Certainly not, Number One, we cannot be entirely assured of their nationality or the destination of their cargoes.” Lauterbach howled silently and gibbered at the sky. He life was in the hands of fools who wanted only to kill him.
    â€œTorpedo boat at harbour entrance, sir.” Sure enough, there she was, small, grey-painted, billowing smoke and coming at them fast with menace. In the narrow space there would be no possibility of avoiding a torpedo. It would be lethal. Lauterbach had marked down the nearest lifebuoy. Now he began edging towards it. The Emden ’s guns swivelled and fired as they charged. The torpedo boat scuttled out of their way, being, after all, only an unarmed vessel of the harbourmaster. But now they were already heading out of port at speed and did not dare turn yet again and sail towards a battle-ready, superior enemy. Cursing his ill fortune in passionate whispers, von Mueller ordered them to run for the open sea.
    â€œOh what bad luck, sir.” Lauterbach consoled cheerfully. His heart laughed. He was alive!
    â€œShip off the starboard bow, could be an auxiliary cruiser, sir.” Damn and Blast! No not an auxiliary – thank God – the Glenturret carrying explosives. Lauterbach set off, smirking, with a prize crew. This would make a very big bang indeed which would calm his nerves. Wait, no. Hold everything. Another ship out there. A French warship, the destroyer Mousquet. Lauterbach was called back as he was about to step into the boat, von Muecke cheerily waving from the bridge.
    â€œQuick Lauterbach. A scrap at last. You wouldn’t want to miss this to save your life!”
    The Emden opened fire at 4,700 yards and the French made their first and last mistake. Instead of attacking frontally, they turned to port, presenting their whole side to be raked with devastating fire. A hit on the boiler room and she was dead in the water, to be destroyed at leisure. After a dozen salvoes, her guns were silenced but no obvious attempt was made to surrender. Another ten were pumped into her and she sank, laying further concerns about her battle-readiness to rest.
    Having tried to kill the French, they now sought to save them The men had never seen the horror of naval wounds before, the terrible burns, the limbs blasted off, the great holes that steel shrapnel would tear in soft human flesh so that a man’s entrails were tipped out hot into his hands. At last Schwabe had something useful to do, dressing crushed stumps and festering wounds agonised by immersion in seawater. Some of the younger ratings wept. They had never meant to do this. They had not known. They, mumblingly, brought humble gifts of chocolate and cigarettes to undo the harm done by shredding metal. Meanwhile the Frenchmen tried to escape their efforts to rescue them, swimming desperately away from their boats. They had been told the Germans massacred prisoners. Only one swimmer made it back to shore Many others drowned. Over the next days, von Muecke busied himself with honourable burials, heel-clicking, flags, trumpets, nice neat little ceremonies, speeches and three cheers for the Kaiser that reassured the men about the honourability and decorum of war. Military pomp and circumstance, Lauterbach saw, were simply something both sides put in place of an avoided issue. A little later, they took another