Rogue Raider by Nigel Barley Page B

British ship, unsinkable for its neutral cargo, and unloaded the prisoners and wounded Frenchmen into her for prompt hospital treatment. Their officer asked for an Emden hatband as a memento and was given one. Normally these were the souvenirs bestowed upon ladies.
    â€œIt seems that the French captain lost both his legs to one of our shells,” von Muecke explained lustily over dinner, eyes shining, to Lauterbach and eating with good appetite. “But had himself gallantly strapped to the bridge so he could go down with his ship rather than live with the dishonour of having seen some of his men dive over the side to save themselves. What a fine officer! And it was magnificent the way those men fought on and joyfully embraced death long after all hope of victory had been lost, simply for the glory of their nation. Pity, in a way, we came out of it untouched. There is nothing improves a fellow’s looks so much as a good, deep duelling scar.” He ran his fingertips lightly along the groove that scored along his own left cheek. “It is a sign, Lauterbach, that a man has honourably engaged the world.”
    Lauterbach looked down and saw that his hands had begun to shake. He dropped knife and fork and gripped his own knees until the spasm passed. Again they had escaped death but it was moving ever closer, attracted towards them by the likes of von Muecke. He could feel it, see its shadow on the stairs. He saw not just the obscenity of torn bodies but, in the crew, a whole vision of those who died unwived, the unbegotten, the bereaved, the hole ripped by their deaths in the close-stitched fabric of history. As he took the potatoes, Lauterbach began to wonder seriously at just what point in an engagement he would be obliged to shoot Number One. Henceforth he would make sure to wear sidearms at action stations. He could pretend it was to save time in case of being ordered to form a boarding party.
    â€œThe only thing that puzzles me is that they mistook us till the very end for a British vessel, even allowing for all the confusion, the dark and so on.” Von Mueller chewed happily, sipped wine, swallowed, rapped militarily with his fork handle. “That shows bad seamanship. They could have sunk us if they’d gone about it in proper fashion and not exposed their starboard side. One or two of their men even swore it happened because we were flying the white ensign, which is clearly not the case.” He threw his head back and sniggered. “As if we would!”
    Lauterbach looked up and bit his lip. Ah yes. Another thing. That reminded him. He must get that damned flag back from Number Two Washboy, chop – bloody – chop.
    The Cocos Keeling Islands only existed as a series of accumulated mistakes and misunderstandings in history. They lay well off the northwest coast of Australia in an otherwise determinedly blank, blue bit of the chart. In the early 19th century, an extraordinary and uxorious follower of Stamford Raffles, Alexander Hare, had used the coral atoll to dump his large polychrome collection of ladies and children before being – almost certainly – murdered by his own business partner. Over the years, the people had attuned themselves to the realities of an enforced servitude to the rapacious trading company that ran the plantations. Previously, the British had assumed overall responsibility for the place by mistake, having despatched a naval lieutenant to plant their flag on the other Cocos Islands strategically located off the coast of Siam. Afterwards, they were too embarrassed to admit their confusion and repudiate such a pointless and isolated possession of sand and rock. Yet, out of this mix of arrogance and error had emerged an unlikely convenience, for the Cocos Keeling Islands were the junction point of the undersea communication cables that held the whole British empire together – one to Mauritius, one to the Dutch East Indies and a third to Australia, the