Chapter XXXIV The Supply Ship
The British cruiser which Max Hilliger had seen through the periscope of the U50 was H.M.S. Dauntless. She had been on coast patrol duty for some days in northern waters, watching for neutral ships and boarding them to examine their papers and inquire into the nature of their cargoes.
Most of them had given a satisfactory account of themselves, and had been allowed to pass on to their intended destinations. But one of them, an old green-painted barque flying the Swedish flag, had at once aroused suspicion by the fact that she was fitted with wireless aerials.
A shot was fired across her bow, and she shortened sail. Captain Damant sent a boat aboard of her in charge of a second lieutenant, who was accompanied by Midshipman Rodney Redisham.
Rodney Redisham read the name Olaf Triggvason on the vessel’s side, but he did not take any great interest in her while he waited for the lieutenant’s return into the boat. The examination seemed to take an unusually long time, and he wondered if anything contraband had been discovered.
Presently the lieutenant appeared in the open gangway, and began to signal back by semaphore to the Dauntless. Rodney understood the message that was sent. It was that a quantity of naphtha and benzine had been discovered in the barque’s cargo; that the captain was a German, and that his secret purpose was to supply a German submarine, which he confessed that he expected.
An answer came back from the cruiser:
“Stay where you are, and we will come alongside.”
The Dauntless steamed slowly up, and the German captain was taken on board of her as a prisoner, to be interrogated by Captain Damant. Shortly afterwards the whole of the crew were taken off and sent below into the seamen’s quarters.
The proceedings were quite unusual, and Rodney Redisham did not understand them. Enlightenment came to him, however, when, instead of the barque’s own crew, the same number of British seamen dressed up in the foreigners’ clothes were put on board the Olaf. He himself was ordered to exchange his midshipman’s uniform for canvas breeches and an engineer’s jumper. Two lieutenants were similarly disguised, and put in command of the barque.
Rodney began to experience the excitement of a prospective adventure. The excitement was increased when three machine guns were transferred from the Dauntless to the decks of the Olaf Triggvason.
When all was ready the cruiser steamed away and the barque’s sails were braced. Her German captain, under pressure, had given the bearings of the spot near which he had been instructed to lie in wait for the submarine, and for this spot the course was set.
It was in a secluded bay between two barren headlands, far away from any habitation. Outside this bay the vessel tacked to and fro and back and forth; but there was no sign of any submarine.
At the end of the first day the senior lieutenant shook his head and declared his belief that the German captain had deceived them. He anchored, knowing that no submarine would expect to find the ship in darkness. But at dawn he again set sail, and cruised within a radius of about a dozen miles. Returning towards the headlands at noon he was about to tack out again when his Marconi operator called him below. Some ship was trying to open communications.
The lieutenant went to the instrument-room, and a message came to him in international code asking the name of his ship. He purposely delayed his answer until the question had been repeated several times, then, giving the name of the ship, he added a guarded question in German.
There was no response for a long time; but he waited patiently, and at length a series of searching questions came to him as though they were from a British warship, demanding to know his exact position and destination and the nature of his cargo.
He knew perfectly well that there was no British warship, excepting the Dauntless, within twenty miles of him, but he answered with all the cunning which would enable his questioner to understand that the way was clear. Already he was convinced that he was speaking with the commander of a German submarine, and at length came the message:
“All right. I am the U50. I am short of oil. Stay where you are, and I will come alongside you within an hour.”
That hour gave the lieutenant ample time in which to prepare a surprise for his expected visitor, to keep his men out of sight beside their concealed guns, and to place the ship in such a position that the guns would cover the submarine when it should rise to the surface and come alongside. He kept the Swedish flag flying, but had a British ensign ready to take its place at the appropriate moment.
Rodney Redisham, leaning lazily over the rail at the break of the poop, was the first to discover the movement of the submarine’s periscope along the sea’s ruffled surface. It was approaching on the starboard side. He reported to the lieutenant, and the helm was put over, so that the barque fell off the wind and lay with her sails swaying empty. The side gangway was opened. Then the submarine, drawing nearer, rose to the surface until her whole length was visible from stem to stern.
Lieutenant von Wiebe and the quarter-master stepped out on the conning-tower platform, and a gang of seamen emerged from the forward hatchway to be ready to take in the new supply of oil.
As they drew closer, steering to come alongside, Wiebe shouted a greeting to the Olaf Triggvason, and a couple of English sailors, looking very like Germans, climbing up the main shrouds, waved their arms and cried aloud:
“Hoch! Hoch!”
Slowing down, the submarine drifted nearer, until only a few yards of clear, green water separated her from the barque. More of her crew clambered out upon her long, narrow deck, with Max Hilliger in their midst.
Max had discarded his naval uniform. He was barefooted and bareheaded, and wore only a pair of greasy serge trousers and a grey flannel shirt.
Suddenly the Swedish flag was hauled down from the barque’s mizzen, and the British ensign was run up in its place. From the opening of the gangway the shining barrel of a machine-gun was thrust out, two machine-guns appeared between gaps in the poop rail, and along the starboard bulwarks half a dozen British bluejackets levelled their rifles at the German commander and his men. The senior lieutenant, no longer disguised, but in the honourable uniform of a British officer, stood forward at the gangway.
“You will surrender, or I shall sink you,” he commanded calmly, as if he were merely giving instructions as to how the submarine should come closer alongside.
Adolf von Wiebe shrank back like an animal at bay, and glanced agitatedly from side to side for a means of escape. But there was none. He could not submerge; he could not take flight. It was useless to think of fighting, and the three quick-firing guns, as well as half a dozen rifles, were levelled menacingly at his ship and his men and himself. It is clear that he had no alternative but to yield.
He shrugged his shoulders in abject despair.
“Ja wohl,” he responded, with a forced laugh. “You ’ave shove me in ver’ difficult corner, mein Herr. It is no good. Ze game is hup. I surrender. I mek ze salute.”
Drawing his bare feet together and standing very upright, he raised his hand to his cap in formal German fashion, and his crew, one and all, followed his example.
“And now, vot next, if you please?” he asked.
“You will bring your crew on board here,” he was told. “Within an hour a British cruiser will be with us to take possession of your submarine.”
Ropes were thrown across, and when a gang plank was in place the thirty German prisoners marched disconsolately on board the barque.
The last in the file was Max Hilliger. As he passed by Rodney Redisham he gave a start of recognition.
“Hullo!” he cried, lifting his hand to his forehead. “I’m glad to see an English face again—one that I know. You have outwitted us this time very cleverly, but quite honestly. The English are always honest. They always play the game.” And, lowering his voice, he added, “I wish I could say the same of the Germans.”
“But you oughtn’t to be disloyal to your own people,” said Redisham.
“I can’t help it,” returned Max, standing in front of the midshipman. “I’ve been mistaken in them all along, and I’ve had enough of them. You see, I went to school in England, and that has made a heap of difference.”
“Yes, and you became a Sea Scout,” nodded Redisham, slowly putting out his hand.
Max Hilliger looked down at it, and shook his head.
“That’s just like you,” he said, “offering to shake hands with a beaten enemy. You’re very good, but I can’t do it. I am not worthy to take the hand of an English gentleman. My own isn’t clean enough.”
He was remembering what had happened in the conning-tower of the submarine. He was remembering how he had taken part in many an act of piracy against British ships, and his heart was heavy with remorse. He turned away, and walked aft. Rodney Redisham watched him, and wondered if his apparent humility were genuine.
Max Hilliger made his way to the poop, climbed the companion ladder, and continued his way to the taffrail. For a moment it seemed to Redisham that he was about to fling himself overboard, and so escape the payment as a prisoner of war.
Max turned and strode back to the binnacle, stood beside it, and then lifted his eyes to the ensign fluttering proudly in the breeze. He glanced round to assure himself that he was not being watched, and then, alone and, as he believed, unseen, he raised his hand to the salute.