The Last Raider

  Contents

  About the Author

  Also by Douglas Reeman

  Title Page

  Dedication

  PART ONE ‘. . . a gesture of defiance.’

  PART TWO ‘. . . war demands that sooner or later we must dirty our hands a little.’

  PART THREE ‘At thirteen-fifteen the enemy opened fire.’

  Copyright

  About the Author

  Douglas Reeman joined the Navy in 1941. He did convoy duty in the Atlantic, Arctic and the North Sea, and later served in motor torpedo boats. As he says, ‘I am always asked to account for the perennial appeal of the sea story, and its enduring appeal for people of so many nationalities and cultures. It would seem that the eternal and sometimes elusive triangle of man, ship and ocean, particularly under the stress of war, produces the best qualities of courage and compassion, irrespective of the rights and wrongs of the conflict . . . The sea has no understanding of the righteous or unjust causes. It is the common enemy, respected by all who serve on it, ignored at their peril.’

  Reeman has written over thirty novels under his own name and more than twenty best-selling historical novels, featuring Richard Bolitho and his nephew Adam Bolitho, under the pseudonym Alexander Kent.

  Also by Douglas Reeman

  A Prayer for the Ship

  High Water

  Send a Gunboat

  Dive in the Sun

  The Hostile Shore

  To Risks Unknown

  With Blood and Iron

  HMS Saracen

  Path of the Storm

  The Deep Silence

  The Pride and the Anguish

  The Greatest Enemy

  Rendezvous – South Atlantic

  Go In and Sink!

  The Destroyers

  Surface with Daring

  Strike from the Sea

  A Ship Must Die

  Torpedo Run

  Badge of Glory

  The First to Land

  The Volunteers

  The Iron Pirate

  In Danger’s Hour

  The White Guns

  Killing Ground

  The Horizon

  Sunset

  A Dawn Like Thunder

  Battlecruiser

  Dust on the Sea

  For Valour

  Twelve Seconds to Live

  The Last Raider

  Douglas Reeman

  For Winifred

  with my love

  ‘And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away.’

  Revelation

  Chapter xxi

  Verse 4

  Part One

  ‘. . . a gesture of defiance.’

  1

  THE GREAT SPRAWLING mass of Kiel dockyard and its crowded harbour seemed to stagger as the late December gale swept down from the Baltic and lashed the grey water into a wild turmoil of whitecaps. The rain, which had been falling heavily for three days, hissed across the sheds and low dockside buildings, and moved in sudden flurries through the deep puddles with each fierce squall. It was early afternoon, yet already the visibility was poor, and shaded lights gleamed faintly from the offices of the German Naval Headquarters.

  The Admiral flinched as an extra savage squall sent a flurry of rain crashing against the tall windows of his office, and made his lofty view of the dockyard below even more distorted. The packed assembly of moored vessels, battle-cruisers, destroyers and supply ships was merged into one jagged panorama of rain-washed steel, broken here and there by a glittering pattern of dancing spray.

  Behind him he could hear the subdued and respectful murmurings of his staff, and he could see their figures reflected in the black glass of the windows, their uniforms gleaming beneath the harsh gas lighting which hung above the giant map-table. The table filled almost a quarter of the room, and at a glance showed the sprawling wastes of the North Atlantic, the North Sea and the narrow gauntlet of the English Channel. Hundreds of small flags and coloured counters represented ships, both friendly and hostile, recent losses and the long black barriers of the minefields.

  The Admiral frowned, and plucked impatiently at the gilt buttons on his frock-coat. His staff were all waiting. They were always waiting nowadays it seemed. Gone was the excitement and eagerness of the early days, and after three years of war, with 1918 only five days ahead, they seemed to have become as stale and entangled as the counters on the chart.

  He forced himself to turn and face them once more. He saw them stiffen automatically, their faces empty and waiting to record his own mood.

  He cleared his throat. As he moved his heavy body nearer the rectangle of officers, the light shone down on his massive silver head so that it appeared too heavy for his short, thick-set figure, resplendent nevertheless in an impeccable uniform with its display of forgotten decorations.

  ‘Gentlemen!’ His deep-set eyes moved along their faces, hard and yet sad. ‘I have called you together once again to tell you the news you have all been waiting to hear.’ He waited, sensing the new interest which seemed to move through the oak-panelled room. ‘We of the High Sea Fleet Staff know better than most of the stalemate which has existed in the war at sea for some time. On land it is no better, but perhaps there it is less important. At sea there can be only one victor. The British hope to crush us with their blockade.’ He paused to wave his hand towards the streaming windows. ‘The rusty mooring-cables of our major war vessels are proof of their success, and we have tried repeatedly to bring the enemy to his knees by similar methods. The newest arm of the Navy, the U-boats,’ he paused again, as if the very mention of submarines was distasteful to him, ‘have attacked enemy foodships and supply vessels of every kind, while our cruisers have been forced to shelter behind the booms and nets of our harbours. The result has been, of course, that the enemy has brought in the convoy system, and the barbarism of this unrestricted type of warfare has also lost us our friends and sympathisers overseas, and may even have forced the Americans to make their final decision to attack the Fatherland!’ He was speaking more openly than usual, but he knew his staff extremely well. He pointed at the long red lines which marked the trade and convoy routes in and out of the British Isles. ‘In the past we have sent out single raiders to harass the enemy shipping lanes. Good ships, commanded by dedicated and fearless captains. Pause for a moment, gentlemen, and think back to some of those raiders. Dresden, Moewe, Seeadler and others, all of which did more to upset the balance of sea power than any major fleet action!’ His voice rose to a shout, and he leaned on his hands, his shadow across the chart like retribution itself. ‘With the loss of our colonies and bases overseas many said that the days of the commerce raider were over. How could such a vessel exist? they asked. For months I have been advocating such a raider, one more glorious episode to be added to the name of the Imperial German Navy!’ He had their full attention now, and for some reason they had all risen to their feet, their faces fixed on his.

  ‘I do not have to tell you, the members of my staff, that the war has become bogged down with pessimism, and even despondency. The Western Front is at a standstill. Rain and mud have done as much as the casualties to cause a stalemate there. In the Navy morale is low, dangerously so! Our men need a symbol, a gesture of defiance which will rock the enemy to his foundations. A single raider, which can come and go as it pleases, which will sink, burn and destroy enemy ships wherever they can be found. Huge enemy forces must be deployed to search for it. Sailings will be cancelled, and desperately needed cargoes will lie rotting in New York and Sydney.’

  The Admiral lifted his massive head from the chart, his eyes clouded with emotion.
‘At last, gentlemen, I have been heard! The Grand Admiral, even the Emperor, has given his consent! The work which you and I have done to this end will at last be rewarded!’

  He paused as the room came alive with excited cries and even handclaps. The Staff Operations Officer, a tall, dignified captain, saw the Admiral nod in his direction, and rapped on the table for silence. Unlike his superior, he was unemotional, and his cool precise voice brought them all back to reality.

  ‘The Vulkan, as you know, is stored and provisioned for her voyage. We have merely been waiting for permission to put this plan into operation. All the past experience of our commerce raiders has been put into her conversion. She is a comparatively new ship; well armed, economical to run, and as a merchant ship will excite as little attention as possible. There has been much consultation and argument about which captain will have the honour to command her. I myself was in no doubt. Korvetten Kapitän Felix von Steiger is the only man.’ He was rewarded by the mutter of approval which flowed round the table.

  Von Steiger, the man who had already in the war carried out one of the most daredevil and rewarding raids of all time. In his converted merchant ship Isar he had returned to Kiel through the blockade, his masts and yards festooned with the house-flags of his prizes. For six months he had moved like a will-o’-the-wisp through the South Atlantic and even to the Pacific, causing chaos and terror wherever he went.

  ‘In a few moments von Steiger will be here. I will give him his sealed orders, and you can get any additional information which your respective departments require.’ He cleared his throat. ‘But never underestimate the importance of this cruise. Never let it from your minds for an instant. A success at sea at this moment could be the very hinge upon which the door to victory could be opened!’

  The Admiral had returned to the darkening window. He half listened to the voices of his officers behind him, while his eyes brooded over the storm-lashed shapes of the fleet. Soon now, he thought. A setback in their sea lanes, hundreds—even thousands—of miles from the combat areas, and the enemy would be forced to cut down his naval patrols. The steel ring which encircled the approaches to Germany would be weakened, and then the trap would be sprung! The might of the High Sea Fleet would be out again. A brief picture of Jutland crossed his thoughts, and he saw again the streaming battle-ensigns, the long grey muzzles roaring defiance at the Grand Fleet, and, above all, the proud battle-cruisers causing ruin amongst Admiral Sir David Beatty’s squadron.

  A brief gust of cool air moved across his neck as the tall double doors were opened by the marine orderlies.

  He forced himself to wait a little longer before turning, allowing his staff time to study the neat, slight figure which stood facing them.

  Korvetten Kapitän Felix von Steiger stared back at the semicircle of flushed, excited faces, his own expression calm and outwardly relaxed. His short, dark hair was glossy beneath the lights, and the neat beard, beloved of newspaper artists and photographers, jutted almost impudently above the black cross which hung about his neck. But there was nothing calm or relaxed about his eyes. The eyes, which had earned him the nickname ‘Tiger of the Seas’, were gold-flecked, even yellow, in the harsh light, and as he stood waiting for the Admiral to turn they flashed momentarily with something like hatred.

  The Admiral was speaking again. Introductions were being made, heads bobbed in formal acceptance of his presence and importance. He hardly listened, and started slightly as the Admiral guided him across the room towards the fire which blazed beneath the great carved mantel, above which the Emperor’s picture glared fixedly at the rain-lashed windows.

  As he moved von Steiger felt something grate beneath his polished boots, and as he glanced down at the rich carpet his stomach seemed to contract to a tight ball. There was no trace of sand gravel where he had been standing. He felt the pain of loss and longing once more, and turned to hide his eyes from the others. He had travelled directly from the graveyard by carriage to this conference, so that the gravel must have been from his wife’s graveside. Through the flames in the grate he saw the bowed heads, the sweeping, relentless rain and the despair which had risen to a climax as the earth had fallen on the polished coffin. He still could not grasp it completely. Freda, laughing, beautiful and, above all, part of himself. Now there was nothing.

  He heard the Admiral say in his thick voice, ‘Perhaps you would care to add your own comments, Captain?’

  Von Steiger nodded. His voice was surprisingly firm and controlled, and he realised that he was listening to himself, like a spectator watching someone else playing a part.

  He looked at the expectant faces. Faces smooth and plump with good living. How would they feel, he wondered, if instead of the dockyard beyond that window there was only the grey waste of the Atlantic, and the horizon a shelter for the enemy, the hunters? As he looked towards the well-planned chart and the neat counters he wondered if they realised just how much pain and misery each sinking represented, how little hope there was left amongst those who still had the strength to think.

  ‘I shall sail tomorrow night as arranged. I shall pass through the Skagerrak on the twenty-ninth and sail northwards, hugging the Norwegian coast.’

  Their eyes were fixed on the chart, following his invisible voyage.

  ‘The nights are long now, so my chances are good for breaking through the blockade. If we are lucky we should be able to pass south of Iceland. If not we shall go through the Denmark Strait. He spoke as if it was of no importance. As if the Denmark Strait was not the worst and most hazardous passage at the height of winter. In fact, von Steiger knew it was pointless to explain the difference. How could he describe the agony of the ice, or permanent darkness and shrieking storms, to men who fought their war from behind desks?

  The Admiral said suddenly: ‘We were all very sorry to hear of your tragic loss, Captain. It was very sad.’ He flushed as the gold-flecked eyes scanned his face. He had almost said ‘inconvenient’, and the look in von Steiger’s cold eyes showed that he had realised the fact.

  Von Steiger took the heavy, red-sealed envelope and tucked it inside his jacket. Sealed orders were always the same, he thought briefly. They gave credit to others, but the onus was on the man who carried them.

  ‘We shall be thinking of you, Captain!’ The Admiral drew himself up stiffly. ‘The Imperial Navy depends on this voyage for more than just a gesture. You will have the loneliest command of all time, but the proudest! May God go with you!’

  Von Streiger clicked his heels and moved towards the door. He realised that they had expected him to make a speech. Inspire them with wild promises perhaps. It was too late for that now. They all thought that his new command, the Vulkan, was a challenge to him, but it was a haven. A freedom from the land and all that it now represented to him. Once in this ship he could try to purge himself clean from the misery which surrounded him. He smiled slightly. To purge myself, he thought, that is more than appropriate. Vulkan was the God of Fire!

  The others, seeing him smile, were humbled, and as they watched the doors close behind him imagined that von Steiger was already planning some new deed, which they themselves would share.

  Only the Admiral still pondered, and felt uneasy.

  * * * * *

  As von Steiger left the headquarters building he realised that the rain had stopped. Overhead, the clouds, full-bellied and menacing, still moved with purpose, and he thought that before long the rain would return. He hunched his shoulders inside his long greatcoat and pulled the black fur collar about his ears. The wind moaned across the dockyard, and the air was ice-cold and damp. Here and there the mobile cranes stood abandoned and forlorn in the deep puddles, and occasionally von Steiger caught a brief glimpse of dockyard workers moving listlessly through the deepening shadows.

  He thought of the Admiral and his staff, and some of his anger returned. He had been surprised at the Admiral’s calm welcome, especially in view of their previous meeting three days earlier.

  It
had been in the same room, and von Steiger had stood beside the great chart while the Admiral had expounded his theories on strategy and surprise. Von Steiger had argued that the cruise planned for the Vulkan was a waste of time. It might be a brave gesture, it might even be moderately successful, but viewed against the backcloth of war it was unlikely to change any succession of events.

  He had been surprised at the Admiral’s anger. It was almost as if the cruise had been planned for his salvation. Then the Admiral had become more conciliatory, almost affable.

  ‘I realise, Captain, that the loss of your dear wife has made you confused. I understand that very well. But Germany needs you, even more than she did. . . .’

  Von Steiger sickened at the memory of the smooth words. He tried to shut his mind to the Admiral and to concentrate on the stark series of events which overnight had changed – no, ended – his life.

  But as usual he obtained only a disjointed set of pictures. Freda waiting to greet him at the big house on the edge of the Plöner See, anxious, soothing and loving. The pictures flashed through his mind as his feet trod carelessly through the trapped rain-water and instinct took him towards the waiting ship.

  She always wanted to help others he reflected. It was a cruel twist of fate that she should have been killed while helping the enemy. There was a hospital for wounded French prisoners near von Steiger’s estate, and Freda spent much of her spare time helping to nurse them back to health.

  That last night had been rough and stormy like today, he recalled. Rudi, the coachman, had told him how he had been driving her back from the hospital. She had shouted to him through the rain: ‘Drive fast, Rudi! The Captain will be home on leave before us unless we gallop!’ She had laughed as old Rudi whipped the two horses into a fast trot. Then there had been the fallen tree, a confused jumble of screaming horses and splintering coachwork. Then silence but for the hiss of rain across the empty road.