Hammond Innes: The Trojan Horse

I cannot begin to describe the impression Schmidt created. It was strange to see this shabby little Jew, unshaven and filthy with oil, issuing precise and elaborate orders for action. And yet it was not incongruous. It was in the character of the man. I remembered the impression I had had of him in my office, a hunted, frightened man, fleeing from justice. Physically he still gave that impression of weakness. Yet there was neither weakness nor indecision in his black eyes. He gave us our orders as though he were arranging the mechanism of a machine. He brought to a scene of action the cool, clear brain of an engineer, and at zero hour he made his dispositions and explained his plan as though he were in a laboratory about to conduct an important experiment.

When he had finished, he climbed back into the turret. I was completely awake now, and I waited, my mind alert and my eyes fixed on my field of vision, with only the slightest void in my stomach to indicate that we were about to go into action.

There was much coming and going in the fo’c’sle. Sedel was constantly issuing orders, and once Marburg himself appeared, his features as expressionless as ever. It was strange to be bottled up in that tank on such a beautiful morning. Stranger still to imagine the burst of action that would break out in this ship as soon as the escort had been dropped. Everything was so bright and fresh, with promise of summer in the warmth of the sunshine. I thought of the battle of the River Plate. Fought in conditions of bright sunlight, the combatants must have felt much as I did at the thought of fighting on a day that was so obviously made for pleasure.

My thoughts were interrupted by the sight of all the men I could see on the fo’c’sle standing motionless, gazing to port. I guessed that the escort was closing with the Thirlmere , before she came into my field of vision. Very sleek and beautiful, and rather deadly she looked, with the bow wave creaming white against her grey hull. She came up fast to within a stone’s throw. I could see the gold braid on the commander’s cap as he hailed us through cupped hands.

I could not hear what he said. But after receiving a reply from our bridge, the destroyer sheered off and swung away from us in a great arc. The captain had come to the port side of the bridge and stood watching the destroyer as she fell astern of us. His figure, rigid against the cloudless blue of the sky, was joined by two others — Marburg and Sedel.

Five, ten minutes — I don’t know how long they stayed there watching the departure of their escort. Time meant nothing to me at that moment. A minute seemed a lifetime.

Then suddenly Sedel raised his hand to his lips. A whistle shrilled out, loud and insistent above the throb of the engines. The captain turned towards him and then his eyes fell to the thing in Sedel’s hands. Almost involuntarily his hands rose above his head. Then suddenly he swung his right at Sedel’s chin. But the German had anticipated the blow. He stepped back, quickly, precisely, and then deliberately fired two shots. The captain never recovered from his lunge, but plunged straight on and fetched up, sprawled across the railings of the bridge. Then slowly his body slipped from sight, his cap tilted drunkenly over his eyes.

Zero hour! The thing had been planned and I could imagine the precision with which it was executed. The wireless operator would look up as the door of his cabin opened. If he resisted, he would be ruthlessly shot down like the captain. If not … Already they were herding the members of the crew on the fo’c’sle. Several passed under guard along the well deck within a few feet of us. They were searched and bundled into one of the fo’c’sle cabins. Only the engine-room crew were left. Presumably a guard had been placed over them. Meantime, the ship had changed course and the sun was now on the starboard bow.

The minutes ticked slowly by. I thought Schmidt would never give the word to go into action. But I understood the reason for delay. The farther we got off our course in the direction of Germany, the clearer the proof of guilt. There was a great deal of movement on the fo’c’sle. In the bustle of the ship’s capture I had endeavoured to keep check on the number of volunteers now for’ard. As far as I could tell there were eight, besides Sedel and Marburg. That left only two unaccounted for, and they would presumably be looking after the engine-room.

A man came hurrying down from the bridge with a small bundle under his arm. He stopped at the foot of the mast and looped it to a halyard. Then he hauled the bundle up and the Nazi swastika flag was broken out at the masthead. There was a great cheer from the fo’c’sle at this. And then there was the sound of orders being issued and a moment later two of the men came hurrying down from the bridge. They went straight to the trapdoor leading to the hold.

‘Get them covered,’ I heard Schmidt say. My hand closed round the trigger of my gun. The cold feel of the steel was somehow comfortingly impersonal. I held the two of them in my sights. ‘Fire!’ came Schmidt’s voice. I heard the rat-a-tat-tat of David’s gun as I pressed my trigger. The gun chattered in my hand. Both men were thrown against the side with the force of the twofold burst of fire.

Then the whole tank rocked and my ear drums sang as Schmidt fired the gun. Through the narrow aperture of my sights I saw the whole of the port side of the bridge, where the captain had so recently been shot, explode. The flash of the explosion seemed a part of this detonation above my head. The whole side of the bridge burst into fragments. Then the structure subsided gently until it hung draped against the more solidly constructed deck housing. A second explosion followed almost immediately. This time the shot was fired at the starboard side of the bridge, but only the extreme edge of it was carried away.

There followed a complete and startled silence, so that above the throb of the engines I heard a gull screaming imprecations at the disturbance. Then, as though some vitalising force had suddenly brought the ship to life again, it echoed with shouts and the running of feet. Two men swung themselves down the broken superstructure of the bridge, heavy service revolvers swinging from their lanyards.

‘Give them a few warning bursts,’ Schmidt ordered.

We did so, and the two of them dived for cover. The hatch of the gun turret clanged above my head as Schmidt threw it open. ‘I wish to speak to Baron Marburg,’ he shouted.

No one answered him.

‘Unless he comes forward in ten seconds,’ Schmidt called out, ‘I shall put another shell into the bridge.’

I could hear him counting softly to himself. The now derelict-seeming superstructure of the bridge was lifeless. Eight — nine — ten. Once again the tank bucked to the kick of the gun. This time the whole of the starboard end of the bridge collapsed into a mass of twisted wreckage.

‘Do you want me to demolish the whole forward part of the ship bit by bit?’ Schmidt called out.

But Marburg had already made his appearance. He was at the port end of the bridge, his heavy body in silhouette against the sun. ‘Who are you and what do you want?’ The question was put in a cold dispassionate voice. I think at that moment I admired the man. I could well imagine the shock that burst of fire must have been to him, when everything had appeared to be going according to plan. Yet there was no tremor in his voice. He might have been addressing a board meeting.

‘My name is Franz Schmidt,’ came the reply from above my head. ‘I think you may remember it in connection with a new type of diesel engine. As you will realise, we control this ship. We have plenty of ammunition and we can quite easily blast the whole of the upper works of the ship away. As a last resort, of course, we have the means of blowing the ship up.’