He was quiet after that, pacing back and forth, looking at his watch, while, on the bridge, life went on as usual-the green glow of the binnacle light, the helmsman at the wheel, the mess boy bringing coffee.
But not the everyday service. Now that they had guests, Cornelius had brought up a full pot of coffee though, true to his Corneliusian soul, he had forgotten the lid, so the coffee steamed in the damp air. But, at least, for a change, hot coffee. And Cornelius was not alone-he was assisted by Xanos, the Greek stowaway from Crete, poor little man, who wore a grimy white steward’s jacket and carried a tray of cups and saucers, and who was so nervous at this new job that his hands shook and the china rattled.
Schumpel was delighted. “Ah now, here you are more civilized than I thought.”
“Coffee, sir?” Xanos said. For this important occasion, someone had taught him the German words.
“Yes, thank you, I’ll have a cup.”
Xanos held out the tray, Schumpel took a cup and saucer, then Cornelius filled it with coffee. The aroma was strong and delicious on the smoky bridge. Schumpel turned to DeHaan and said, “You will join me?”
DeHaan said he would, but Xanos’s nerves got the best of him, and the tray slipped from his hands and the crockery went clattering to the deck. A startling event, to Schumpel, very startling, because he said, “Hah!” as though he’d been slapped on the back, and threw his cup and saucer in the air, the coffee splashing on his white shirt. But he didn’t care so much about the shirt, because he turned his head and looked over his shoulder and, as Xanos leapt away, drew in a long breath through clenched teeth and twisted his head back the other way, his eyes wide with panic. Xanos stepped behind him and did something with his hand, then Schumpel said, “Ach,” sank to his knees, tilted slowly, and toppled forward, with a loud thump as his forehead hit the deck.
On the other side of the bridge, the ape shouted, and DeHaan turned toward him. Head steaming, he howled and pressed his free hand to his eyes, while Cornelius stood gaping at him, the empty coffeepot dangling upside down from his fingers. Then the submachine gun swung toward him and he dropped the pot and grabbed the barrel with both hands and hung on for dear life, shoes sliding across the deck as he was spun around. The two of them circled twice before DeHaan and Scheldt got there. DeHaan drew his fist back but Scheldt shoved him aside and did it himself, three or four shots, bone on bone and loud. The last one worked, and as Cornelius fell backward with the gun clutched to his chest, the ape mumbled, “Leave me alone,” and sat down.
Scheldt stood over him, shaking his hand and grimacing with pain. “Pardon, Cap’n,” he said.
“Get the wheel,” DeHaan said. If they drifted off course, the captain on M 56 would know something had gone wrong. DeHaan went over to Schumpel, who was still kneeling, his forehead resting on the deck, the hilt of a knife fixed between his shoulder blades. A kitchen knife? No, DeHaan saw that the handle was wrapped with tape, a killing weapon. “Thank you, Xanos,” DeHaan said. “Also you, Cornelius.”
“It was the little passenger,” Cornelius said. “He drew it on a piece of paper. Just like you told him to.”
“Where is he?”
“In the galley. He’s peeling potatoes. For hours, Cap’n, pounds and pounds of ’em.”
“Where are the other Germans, Cornelius, do you know?”
Cornelius’s face knotted with concentration and he licked his lips. “He said to tell you, if the plan worked out, that there’s one in the radio room.” He thought for a moment, then said, “A signalman-he told me to tell you that. And I know there’s two of them in the crew’s quarters.”
And one in the wardroom, and certainly two in the engine room. DeHaan looked aft. Out in the darkness, the lights of M 56 bobbed up and down in the swell, keeping station off their starboard quarter. DeHaan knelt beside Schumpel’s body and slid his pistol, a heavy automatic with a short barrel, out of its holster. Xanos said a Greek word and pointed-the ape was trying to crawl out the door. DeHaan and Cornelius stopped him, then Cornelius got a length of line from the signal-flag rack and DeHaan tied his hands and feet, wrapping a signal flag around his head and knotting its cord in back. “If you move, we’ll throw you overboard. Understood?”
“Yes,” the man said, his voice muffled by the flag.
DeHaan put the pistol in his pocket, then picked up the submachine gun and handed it to Scheldt, who stood it on its stock by the helm. For DeHaan, there was a strong temptation to free the captives in the wardroom, but he couldn’t take the chance. So far, there’d been no gunfire, which meant that the signalman in the radio room had not been alerted, so communication between the Noordendam and M 56 was the next problem that had to be solved. And, eventually, they would have to deal with M 56 itself, by force or by subterfuge. Board it? Ram it? Somehow, he told himself. “Stay sharp on one nine zero,” he told Scheldt. “I’m leaving you and Xanos in charge of the prisoner, and the bridge. So, if any German shows up here, you can use that weapon. You better have a look at it.”
Beckoning Cornelius to follow him, DeHaan left the bridge on the port wing-the side concealed from the view of the M 56. Quietly, they moved along the deck to the door of the radio office. It was closed. Locked? He wouldn’t know until he tried. But, if he had to shoot the man inside, the wardroom guard would be alerted. DeHaan took the pistol from his pocket and examined it. J. P. Sauer amp; Sohn, Suhl was stamped on the barrel, then CAL 7,65, and it had a safety, operated by a thumb lever. He pushed the lever up, so the safety was off, then found a catch behind the trigger. What did it do? He didn’t know. This didn’t work like his Browning, but he assumed that with the safety off, the weapon would fire when he pulled the trigger. He detached the magazine, counted eight rounds in the clip, then snapped it back in place. “Stay behind me,” he told Cornelius.
DeHaan approached the door, listened, then pressed his ear against the iron surface. Silence. He put two fingers on the metal lever that worked as a doorknob, steadied the automatic in his right hand, and held the barrel up. Slowly, he applied pressure to the lever. It gave. Then he took a breath, pushed down hard on the lever, aimed the pistol at the interior, and threw the door open.
The signalman was sitting tilted back in Mr. Ali’s swivel chair with his feet up on the work desk and his hands clasped behind his head. He’d been staring at the ceiling, maybe dozing, but he was awake now. Eyes wide, he stared at the automatic aimed at his chest, then tried to sit upright, as the chair hung dangerously on its back wheel for an instant, then righted itself as he kicked his legs. He raised his hands in the air and said, “I surrender, understand? Surrender.” He waved his hands so that DeHaan would see them.
“Did you call your ship?”
“No. I was just sitting here. Please.”
“They call you?”
“An hour ago. I answered back, so they knew I was receiving, that’s all.”
“What’s their call signal?”
“Seven-eight-zero, five-five-six. At six point nine megahertz.”
DeHaan looked him over. In his early twenties, just somebody caught up in a war who’d joined the Kriegsmarine, then was lucky or clever enough to get duty on a minesweeper patrolling the Danish coast- M 56, scourge of the herring boats.
DeHaan checked the radio, found nothing to provoke his interest, then walked the signalman back up to the bridge. “So, that’s two,” Scheldt said. Then glanced at Schumpel’s body and added, “Three, I mean.” DeHaan sat the signalman down next to the other prisoner, and tied his hands and feet. “I’m going to the wardroom,” he told Scheldt.
“Let me come with you, Cap’n. With the submachine gun.”
DeHaan thought about it, then said, “No, I’ll take Cornelius.”
On the main deck, one level below the bridge, the wardroom was next to the officers’ mess, down a passageway past the chartroom and the officers’ cabins. DeHaan paused out on deck, in front of the heavy door. “Cornelius, I want you to go the wardroom. Look around, see what’s going on in there, and where the guard is.”
“Aye-aye, sir,” Cornelius said. He was being brave, the fighting on the bridge had shaken him.
“You can do it,” DeHaan said. “It’s easy, just do what you always do, you don’t have to be quiet, or clever. Take a walk down the passageway, tell the guard that Leutnant Schumpel sent you.”
“Why did he send me, sir?”
“You’re the mess boy-you’re going to bring up something to eat. They haven’t had any food for a long time, so you’re there to, to count how many, and the cook is going to send up sandwiches and coffee.”
Cornelius nodded. “Sandwiches.”
“And coffee. Don’t be scared.”
“Aye, sir.”
When Cornelius reached for the door lever, DeHaan realized that he had to know what happened in the wardroom-in case the guard didn’t believe the story. He’d intended to wait for Cornelius on deck, but now realized
