JOANNA AND THE SEA DEVIL (Part 2)


By KATZMAREK


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This is a work of erotic fiction. It remains the Author's property and may not be used for gain without his express permission in writing.


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RFS Dupetit-Trouars lay anchored some 100 metres or so from the shore. Her anchor chains were coated in a thick green slime of tropical algae. Her hull, once gleaming white, was streaked with rust. The tricoleur flag draped lifeless from the staff on the stern.


The cruiser's shafts had not turned for almost a year and very little maintenance had been done in that time. It was now little more than a floating headquarters for the French Pacific Squadron.


Nearby lay RFS Linois, an antique, now, and in a similar state of disrepair. Its preposterous extended ram bow, 'tumblehome' hull and two tall, large funnels made her look like a floating museum exhibit. Similarly, her propeller shafts had not spun for some considerable time.


The crews reflected the state of their ships. Tahiti, for all intents and purposes, was in peacetime mode. Very little of the Great War in Europe disturbed the tranquility of this island paradise.


Severe budgetary constraints restricted operations. There was little coal available, and that had been labouriously hauled halfway around the World. Grease, paint, ammunition and spare parts were in short supply. It was little wonder that routine maintenance had gone by the board.


In fact, there was more than enough allied ships in the Pacific theatre and the tiny French Squadron had no particular role. British and Japanese Naval vessels were generally well-manned and efficient and now they'd been complemented by ships of the United States Navy.


Under an awning set on the quarterdeck of the flagship, Admiral Michelet sat at his desk attended by his French Orderly and Tahitian Servant. He watched his Communications Officer, Commandant Marfart, stroll towards him dressed in his unbuttoned uniform shirt and khaki shorts. He had in his hands the day's signal chits for him to look over.


"That shipping agent has been calling again, Admiral," Marfart said, "he says a ship's overdue for coaling."


"What are we, the lost and found department?" the Admiral shrugged. "It's probably changed its mind and coaled someplace else."


"Probably," he agreed, "strange signal from the Marquesas. I think you should have a look at it."


"What is it?"


"From a Jesuit Priest. He says he's found a castaway. The man claims he was captured by German Pirates." 


Michelet chuckled with laughter, "the man's delirious, obviously. Been too long in the hot sun... affects the mind. Anything else?"


"We picked up a signal from the SS Nantucket Respect. It was incomplete, just the vessel's callsign and nothing else. That's the same vessel that shipping agent claims is overdue."


"Ah, shit! So it's coming into silly season again. Have we anything in the area?"


"Nothing!"


"Then pass it on to the British, they have nothing better to do."


"Yes, Admiral."


------------------------------------


Joanna awoke early on the third day of their stay on Hatutu in the Northern Marquesas Group of Islands. Rupert was already out surf casting with the rod he'd fashioned from driftwood. He approached fishing with the same intensity and inventiveness he attacked any task. Joanna was amazed at some of the ideas he came up with.


The fire had been stoked, and water was boiling on it for her morning coffee. On a hook on one of the posts of their lean-to was his holster and pistol. It would be so easy to take it and shoot him as he came up the beach with the morning's catch. So easy, perhaps, but unthinkable.


The Germans had evidently left in a hurry because they'd abandoned some of their supplies. Rupert told her that it was proof they intended to return. She wondered, though, whether they were able to. She also thought of her Parents cooped up as prisoners on the sailing ship. She wondered if they were still alive.


Rupert wandered back to their campsite carrying a creel full of fish. Joanna felt she ought to say something about his dress. He was bare-chested with just the briefest of trousers and it disturbed her. By the time he set the basket down and beamed at her, she'd forgotten what she was going to say.


"Fishing good," he told her.


She squinted up at him in the bright sunlight. He sat down to fetch himself a coffee. Joanna saw him scratch his stubbly chin and look about, evidence he was thinking of some new scheme. "What are you thinking?" she asked.


"I think, maybe, we build better shelter. Too much sun, not good for you."


Always, she thought, he talked of doing things for her like he'd dedicated himself to her well-being. Sometimes it gave her a warm feeling, but occasionally, it was just too overwhelming.


He knelt over the fishing basket and began examining the catch. Joanna watched his well-tanned back. Her eyes drifted down to where his belt made a futile attempt at keeping his trousers hitched. A furrow peeped out over the belt and rippled as he moved. It gave her a funny feeling and she remembered what she was going to tell him earlier.


"Rupert." He turned around, looking straight at her with those deep blue eyes, his bare chest gorgeous like some Greek God. "Nothing," she smiled. She needed to go for a walk alone. She got up, mumbled something to  Rupert, then hurried down the beach until she was out of sight of their campsite. There she lay on her back and stared up at the blue sky.


She was shaking again, emotional, and her body felt supersensitive. Tears clouded her eyes. She thought of the dream she had last night, a dream she was sure would send her straight to purgatory, thoughts that she couldn't even confess on Sunday. Dreams of lying naked together with Rupert, his face inches from her own, of him kissing her passionately as she clutched his strong body against hers. She opened her eyes to stop the vision, then turned onto her front. The picture was still there beckoning to her. Her tears flowed stronger than ever.


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Brother Paul returned to the hut where their visitor lay recovering from his ordeal. He was sitting up, appeared lucid and clear-eyed and munching a Guava the Natives had given him. He perked up when he saw the priest.


"You explained to them?" he asked anxiously in English.


"Ah oui," replied the Brother, "but I hear nothing back. I ask to speak to the American Consul and they say to wait."


"Did you tell them about the Germans? Are they going to send a ship?"


"I tell them," the Priest looked skeptical, "I ask the Marquesans to check Hatutu for signs of your pirates, but..."


"But?"


"Hiram, perhaps this is, ah, maybe all a dream you had while drifting at sea, yes? Maybe you were castaway on Hatutu and can't remember? You were dehydrated, funny things can go through your mind when..."


"It's true!" protested the American, "do I look mad to you?"


"No, but..."


"Then you need to explain to them, make them understand there's a German raider anchored near that island and..."


"Monsieur," said the Priest nervously, "Hiram, the Marquesans checked yesterday. They went right around the island... there's nothing there."


"Nothing?"


"Non!"


"They must have left. Perhaps after they discovered me missing?"


The Priest sighed. "Perhaps I'll call Tahiti again and see what the say."


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Rear Admiral Arthur ordered the bell to be rung for a round of sherry before dinner. The servant marched ceremoniously into the wardroom of HMS Suffolk with a decanter and glasses on a silver tray. He poured each guest a drink and smoothly placed a glass alongside each chair on the left, always on the left, of the placemat.


"Gentlemen," he told his Captains, "a toast to our American allies!" Each British Officer took a seemly sip of the sherry before sitting down.


"Thank you gentlemen," said Admiral Wendhoven, Commander of the USN's San Diego Naval Base. "Thank you very much. May we continue in the spirit of cooperation and comradeship in the coming trial."


"Quite!" agreed the Admiral's British allies.


Halfway through the meal, Admiral Arthur leaned over towards Commander Debenham of HMS Sussex. "Alexander," he said, "I've had a signal from our man in Tahiti."


"Sir?"


"Apparently the French have mislocated a ship... a whale factory ship... American!"


"Doesn't surprise me," Debenham replied, wryly.


"Quite! Probably their radio's broken down, changed their minds or found some dusky beauties on some island somewhere, what?"


"No doubt!"


"Nevertheless, I think it would be flattering to our new allies if we stopped and had a look for it, don't you think?"


"Where was their last position?" 


"Off the Marquesas. Sent half a message then stopped. The agent on Tahiti hasn't been able to raise them again."


"You don't say?" Debenham's shoulders began to itch, evidence that another of his 'hunchs' was starting to materialise. Alexander Debenham, with nearly 25 years at sea, was noted as having an uncanny sense when something wasn't quite right.


"I was thinking of sending Sussex, you game?" continued the Admiral, "the crew will be foul, I rather think they're anxious to be going home."


"I will explain to them. I don't think a cruise through the Pacific Islands would be too hard a task, Admiral.


"Perhaps not," he grinned, "just make sure you bring Sussex home with *all* its crew on board!"


"Of course, sir," he chuckled.


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Margaret Begg couldn't remember a time when she had been so miserable. The whole atmosphere on the Seeteufel had changed for the worst. She couldn't believe things could get harder than they had been.


The mess on the German ship was now crowded with angry, crude, blaspheming New England whalers. Following the loss of their ship, sunk by the German raider's shells, it hadn't taken them long to recover their composure.


They cursed the German guards, argued with them until Margaret was afraid there would be a fight. The Whaler's crew were boisterous and loud and she couldn't sleep.


Their time up on deck was now severely limited. There was now so many prisoners on board that the German crew couldn't cope with all of them topside. They were allowed up in shifts of five or six at a time. There were now two guards, both armed with rifles. The Germans were nervous.


She was now the only woman on board, cooped up with 30 men who had not seen a female human for about a year. She was glad her daughter had been left on that island, glad she wouldn't be exposed to the catcalls, wolf-whistles and indecent suggestions. She was happy, oddly, that she was likely being cared for by that young German sailor. The boy adored her, that was obvious in everything he did for her while on board the Seeteufel. And that clown he made for her? So sweet of him, she thought, she was sure Joanna wouldn't come to harm.


Robert Begg was sullen and tense in the presence of so many disgruntled fellow prisoners. Robert, and Rufe, their remaining crewman from the MV Senator, sat protectively near Margaret looking ready to spring to the defence of her honour at a moments notice. He even appeared friendlier to the German guard who often sat with them, rifle across his knees. He no-longer called him 'Kraut' or 'Heine.' Instead, it was Johan this or that, an ally, perhaps, if things in the mess got out of hand.


And the guard would tell them as much as he knew in broken English. They had not heard from Rupert or her daughter and hoped they were all right. Yes, they would return to the island once they found somewhere to dispose of their prisoners. The Captain, von Seydlitz, would never leave a crewman behind, it was a matter of honour.


"Hey beautiful!" a whaler called out, "come sit over here, honey!"


"Yeah," another said, "let us show you some real whale meat!"


"Shut up, Johnson!" their Skipper called out, "don't you go scaring the lady!" Margaret hated it. She looked down at the deck, fidgeting.


Robert extended his arm and rubbed her shoulder. If there was any compensation, she was grateful for one thing. Her husband seemed so much closer to her.


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Meanwhile, at Papeete, capital of French Polynesia and Headquarters of the French Pacific Squadron, US Consul Mark Prewer strode purposefully up the ladder of the RFS Dupetit-Trouars. His family had been called Prieux before the US Immigration Authorities butchered the name a generation ago.


He spoke French as his first language. He understood the Gallic character and way of doing things. His posting on Tahiti had been a happy one. 


He greeted Admiral Michelet like an old friend. Formally allies now, he'd recently celebrated his new status with the French Officers in the customary manner. His hangover had lasted fully three days afterwards.


"Monseur Prewer," the Admiral said, "please, you will stay for lunch?"


Lunch in the French Pacific Squadron lasted a good two hours. Business was never discussed, rather that had to wait until afterwards when the US Consul unveiled a box of the finest Cuban cigars for the delectation of his hosts.


'Wherever French explorers planted their flag in the soil, the next coloniser to arrive was the Chef,' so the saying goes. Meals on board the Dupetit were legend throughout the Navy and many a person considered themselves fortunate to receive an invitation to the Flagship.


"Admiral," began Prewer as they puffed contentedly sitting on the deckchairs of the cruiser's quarterdeck, "I have a problem."


"Consider it solved, my friend," the Frenchman replied, "how may we help?"


"There is an American castaway on Eiao in the Marquesas..."


"Ah, the madman!" said the Admiral, rotating his finger above his head, "too long adrift at sea. I've seen this many times."


"Yes, Monseur. I have been on the radio to the French Resident there. The man is in the care of the Jesuit mission. He claims to be one Hiram Willens, a crewman on the yacht 'Senator' that was believed to have foundered off San Diego last month."


"But that's not possible, Monseur Prewer! He could not have drifted so far..."


"I agree, Admiral. He also has some wild story about German pirates. He says he was rescued by a raider masquerading as a Barquentine-rigged sailing vessel. He says they have the Beggs, his employers, as prisoners on board."


"That is an unlikely story," remarked the Admiral.


"I know, but Washington is very anxious that we pick this fellow up, I thought..."


"Ah! Lieutenant Simeon!" he called to his secretary, "is the 'Chasseur' still based in the Marquesas?"


"Yes, Admiral," he answered, "at Atuona in the Southern Group."


"We have a Patrol vessel a day's steaming away," he explained to Prewer, "It's an old torpedo boat, I will send it to pick your man up."


"Thank you, Admiral."


"Another glass of Cognac?"


"A small one, perhaps." 


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Joanna felt the sunlight on her back dim perceptably. She turned her head and saw a figure sillouetted against the rising sun.


"Joanna," the figure said, "you hurt! Please, I help!"


"No, Rupert, I'm all right, really."


"You been crying? Why you cry, you hurt, or sad, maybe?"


"Maybe sad," she told him. He came and knelt beside her. Joanna caught a whiff of the coconut oil he smeared over himself as protection against the sun. Again, as always, she sensed his maleness, his energy and vitality. Her head spun.


"I cheer you, make you feel happy," he told her.


"Why?" Joanna's voice was thick in her throat, she could barely speak.


"Why?" he repeated, "I not understand."


"Why... why do you do all these things for me. I'm not a child!" To her own ears she sounded petulant. It annoyed her, it wasn't what she intended.


"Because you need me." His voice sounded confused. "I... is hard for me to say in English," he continued.


"I don't, I don't need you. I can take care of myself," she responded, again rather more petulantly than she meant.


He looked abashed, like a schoolchild facing the Principal. "I sorry," he continued, "I get English words confused. I try to say things... but come out wrong way."


Joanna softened. He always did that to her when he adopted that look. His whole self-effacement act struck her somewhere under her ribcage. "You do fine," she told him, "I understand you."


"You come back now?" he asked, "I worry for you." He took her gently by the arm and she allowed him to pull her to feet. She tottered and he held her around the waist. Instinctively she put her arm around his back as they walked slowly back to the campsite.


After a long pause, she asked, "what do you find so hard to say in English?" She knew the answer already, knew all along in her heart since they stood together on the Seeteufel watching the island of Hatutu emerge from the horizon. Even earlier, perhaps?


However Rupert demurred at the question with a shrug of the shoulders. She persisted, he turned away and spoke something to the wind in German. In the end he wouldn't answer her. They set about gathering firewood in silence.


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Von Seydlitz was in a foul mood. The Seeteufel was no-longer a happy ship. There were just too many prisoners on board. Some of them were deliberately trying to provoke his crew and he feared that violence could break out at any time. He desperately wanted to get rid of them.


His best and safest option was to put them aboard a neutral ship bound for a port in, say, South America. That would give him the breathing space needed to clear the area before angry pursuers came after him. Other options were to set them adrift at sea or dump them on a deserted island. Neither choice appealed to the the German Captain for humanitarian reasons. Any more trouble, however, and he might change his mind.


There was one other option and that was to await a German supply ship at the 'Mid-Ocean Meeting Point.' That was a box of ocean where German raiders could prearrange to meet their support ships.


But there was no guarantee that there was a supply ship at sea now that America was in the war. Von Seydlitz was going to wait a week and, if nothing turned up, he intended to head back towards the Marquesas and, hopefully, encounter a neutral ship on the way.


If the MOMP had become known to the Allies, of course, then he was in serious trouble. It was some 800 kilometres North of Easter Island, well away from shipping routes but handy for those ships operating out of South American ports.


As the sun fell to the horizon, the Seeteufel hoisted two coloured riding lights to the masthead, red over green. This was her recognition signal. Around midnight the lookout shook the Captain awake, he had seen a Morse lamp signalling.


Von Seydlitz ordered a single green flare to be fired, the 'all clear' signal. Presently a vessel approached slowly, it's hull a low black streak in the night decorated by the grey foam of its wash. Von Seydlitz's spirits sank a little as the ship came alongside, it was a U Boat.


U125 'U-Kreuzer Oldenburg' to be precise, a 1700 ton monster of a submarine now used to supply other U boats as a 'Milk Cow.'


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Margaret Begg awoke suddenly to the sounds of shouting up top. The Seeteufel shuddered and she heard something bump along her side. She nudged her husband who sprang instantly alert at the sounds.


"Have we hit something?" she whispered urgently to Robert. He held up his hand to silence her and listened for a moment.


"I think a ship is alongside," he told her.


"Hey, what's going on?" one of the whalers yelled. It was Johnson, a rough crude, huge man who had caused a great deal of trouble on board. "Hey, you, Kraut," he bellowed at the dozing guard, "what the fuck is going on?"
The guard named Schopf, a young lad of about 18, jolted awake and listened, his eyes on the deck above. "Hey, I'm talking to you," Johnson continued, "why don't these Krauts speak English?"


"Leave the lad alone," intervened Robert Begg, "can't you see he doesn't know anything?"


"And what the fuck has it got to do with you?" Johnson snarled, "is he your little fuckboy or something?"


Margaret Begg groaned and put her hands over her ears. Robert looked at her distress and felt his anger flare. "Goddammit," he said to the big man, "why don't you keep that garbage mouth shut!" At that, Johnson got to his feet as a general tumult began gathering around him.


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Von Seydlitz had never met the U Boat's Captain before. He was a man named Rudolf Himmel, an old hand at the game. He climbed the Seetaufel's ladder and shook von Sedlitz's hand warmly. He will shortly, he said, be heading back to Germany and could offer some Diesel oil for the raider.


Suddenly, as von Seydlitz, Theo and Himmel were about to discuss the transfer of supplies, they heard a muffled bang from below decks. The German Officers looked at each other for confirmation, then heard shouting and crashing. Taking out their side arms they aimed them at the hatchway. 


The hatch began to shake violently as if someone was trying to break out. "Alarm," the Skipper yelled, "alarm, get the crew, unlock the armoury, the prisoners are rioting!"


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Johnson had been on a slow burn since being taken unwillingly on board the German raider. His whole life, and that of his family, depended on whaling, had been that way for generations. Now his livelihood and most of his possessions were at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean. The tons of whale oil on board the Nantucket Respect would've ensured his family's prosperity for a year.


Johnson was a big man and an accomplished brawler who had never been beaten in any bar room fist fight. He seethed with resentment at being caught up in a European war he knew little about and cared about even less. He hated these Germans and he hated that faggot and his wife who stood up for them. And Johnson was a good hater, ask anyone in New England.


But he had more to fuel his hatred. His Uncle had been the Radio Operator on board the Nantucket Respect. He was only doing his job when a shell from the Seeteufel blew him and his radio room across the ocean. He was a good man, his uncle, always willing to give the men a hand and these Germans never gave the old man a chance. Yes, Johnson had a good deal to feel bitter about.


Robert Begg stood up as the big man advanced on him, cursing. Three or four other whalers rose and stood behind him.


Schopf, the young guard, blanched, fear written all over his face. He grabbed his rifle and swung it towards Johnson. "Back," he said, "go back!"


Johnson, though large, had reflexes honed from a dangerous life. Before anyone could react, he seized the barrel of the Mauser, wrenched it free from the youth's hands, and visciously cracked the German in the side of his face with the flat of the butt. Schopf flew back against the wall and slumped to the deck, blood starting to seep from his ear. Behind them came shouts, uproar and someone clapped. Johnson turned to confront Robert Begg and his terrified wife, now cowering in the corner of the mess.


Just then, however, the second guard, who was called by Robert, 'Fatty,' because he was always eating, returned through the Galley hatch with a plate of supper. When he saw what was happening his mouth gaped.


"What is this?" he exclaimed, dropping his plate. Johnson spun around with his rifle, the room miraculously cleared as the other men threw themselves out of the line of fire. 'Fatty's' eyes bulged and he hit the deck as Johnson fired. The round smacked into the Gally hatch with a spray of wood splinters.


"Take the ship!" someone yelled. The cry was taken up by others and soon there was a mob charging up the ladder to the hatch leading to the deck.


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Von Seydlitz and Theo covered the hatch while the crew of the raider armed themselves for the confrontation. There were fewer than a dozen rifles on board, in a concealed armoury near the engine room. It would take several minutes for the crew to get ready. 


Meanwhile, Himmel ran back down the ladder to the U Boat to summon reinforcements.


Down below, some of the whalers had smashed their way into the Galley and began rummaging around arming themselves with knives, meat cleavers and whatever else seemed useful as weapons. They then charged the Galley Store, splintered the wooden door, then rampaged through to the next obstacle. That, alas, was a steel bulkhead with the turntable machinery for the Seeteufel's forward gun behind it. The hatch was secured with a bar and a substantial padlock. Try as they might the rioters couldn't break it. Above, though, was an escape hatch, but that proved to be firmly secured from the outside.


There appeared to be no way out except through the hatch leading to the deck, so the whalers retreated back through the Galley. In that compartment, there was a skylight and fan above. As the rioters filtered back, the skylight opened a fraction and a pistol flashed and cracked from it. The bullet smacked into the deck by someone's foot, hurrying everybody back to the mess.


On deck, the armed Germans began taking up positions covering the hatchway. Having chased the whalers back from the Galley, von Seydlitz stationed a rifleman by the skylight with instructions to shoot anyone trying to re-enter that area. He was beginning to feel confident he'd contained the Americans to the foreward mess.


Johnson thought it was time for a conference to decide what to do. The whalers had with them two rifles; Schopf's, and one from 'Fatty', who lay on the deck bleeding from multiple stab wounds. Some of the others had acquired knives and other weapons, but still their situation didn't look promising.


"That's enough now, Johnson, this is going to end badly. We have to negotiate," said Mitchell, the Nantucket Respect's Skipper, trying to reassert his authority.


But Johnson had never surrendered to anyone in his life and he only negotiated with a good length of solid timber in his hand. He looked around at his advantages. They were short on firepower but they had Schopf, the young guard moaning groggily in the corner.


"Get the Kraut!" he yelled.


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Joanna and Rupert's 5th day on Hatutu ended like the other 4, the sun went down with a display of reds and oranges into the Western horizon. The air cooled to a pleasant temperature as they prepared their beds in their simple shelter.


Rupert had reconstructed their temporary home with driftwood, creepers and thatched the whole to make a proper hut. It was cool during the day and Rupert swore it would be waterproof in the event of rain.


They slept on woven mats, under which they stuffed sedge grass. Rupert had hung one of their homemade mats from the ceiling between the beds for privacy. Joanna was a little disappointed, she'd grown used to having Rupert's sleeping body inches away.


They had taken lots of walks together, and sometimes she preferred to walk alone, trying to make sense of everything. After an evening meal of steamed fish, flavoured with various wild herbs that Rupert had foraged, she watched his after dinner ritual with fascination.


He'd take a block of 'Schipper's Tabak' from his pouch and pare some off into the palm of his hand. He'd rub it until it was fluffy then prod it carefully into his Meerschaum calabash. Then he'd lean back puffing out huge clouds of blue smoke holding his Ronson lighter over the bowl. He told her he'd won the lighter in a barrack-room dice game from a sailor who'd won it in turn from a British sailor before the war. It's flame was dimming as it steadily ran out of white spirits.


Joanna felt she knew so little about him. Did he have a girlfriend? A family back home in Heidelberg? Was he an only child? Thinking it over on her long walks, she realised he rarely talked about himself, actually not  talked at all except for domestic concerns. No, she didn't think it was the language difficulties, it was just that he was naturally reticent. 


The only emotion he'd displayed was concern when he thought she'd hurt herself or was unhappy. She wondered whether he had any life at all that wasn't dedicated to her well-being.


She lay awake unable to sleep, her eyes fixed on the thatched ceiling. She heard him breathing steadily next door.


"Rupert?" she called softly. There was a shuffling behind the screen. "Rupert?" she called a little louder, "are you asleep?"


"No," he answered.


"Tell me," she said, "what does 'Ich Liebe Dich' mean in English?" She knew the answer, of course. It was one of the few sentences in German she did know, had known since way back at boarding school. There was no answer from next door, she could just hear him breathing. "Rupert?" she repeated.


"Why you want to know?" he asked, his voice thick.


"Because... Tell me, what does it mean?"


"Something you tell someone... who you like very much," he hedged.


"And what would that be?"


"Is not so easy... in English... words not simple," he lied. Actually the first time Joanna could recall that he'd told her a fib.


Rupert Sachsenburger knew exactly what she wanted him to say. Had realised himself for several days now just what was troubling the American girl. It was something he had been trying hard to deny, something so strong he felt it eating his insides.


At first she'd reminded him of his kid sister. His brother was six years older than him and had joined the military as a cadet. He'd never been that close to him, didn't really know him in fact. But his younger sister, Lotte, and Rupert had grown close. She'd looked up to him and he'd doted on her. Joanna reminded him of Lotte in many ways. He'd found himself slipping into the role of big brother to her. That was at first, now things had changed and he didn't know how to cope.


For a start, America had declared war on Germany and this girl was a citizen of that country. Secondly, he'd soon be returning to his ship and the Americans will be released somewhere. To be romantically involved with Joanna was sure to end in a parting. Life had been so much simpler on the Seetaufel and he longed to get back on board.


"Rupert!" she called. He sensed their curtain being pulled back. "Rupert? Are you all right?" He turned and looked at her face, shining in the dying cooking fire with a faint tinge of blue from the moonlight. She looked beautiful, like an angel, her skin soft, her eyes glowing with passion. He was struck dumb, his jaw appeared frozen and his body zinged with electricity.


He reached out his hand and touched her face. Joanna rolled under the curtain and into his arms.


----------------------------------------


"Hey you out there!" Johnson yelled through the deck hatch, "we want to talk, we're coming out."


Von Seydlitz consulted quickly with Theo, his Second Officer. Himmel, the U Boat's Skipper, came back on board with twenty armed members of his crew. On the U125's conning tower's 'bird cage' the crew had just finished mounting the machine gun. On the tower's forward extension the gun crew was swivelling the 37mm towards the Seeteufel. Himmel was taking no chances, if the battle for the ship be lost he was quite prepared to sink her rather than risk the 'infection' spreading to the U Boat.


Von Seydlitz took a quick look at the dispositions of his men. There were now over thirty armed sailors on board. A team crouched behind the capstan and on each side of the mess room's skylight. More took up positions around and behind the Seeteufel's forward gun. Von Seydlitz, Theo and Kapitan Himmel withdrew to the foremast, pistols drawn. He nodded to Theo. "Come out!" he yelled, "we will not open fire."


An armed sailor pulled the bar on the hatch then retreated to cover. The hatch opened and the young sailor, Schopf, was pushed roughly through it. He stood with his hands up as Johnson, followed by three other whalers, emerged into the glare of U125's searchlight. Their hostage stood trembling in absolute terror having no doubt in his mind that he was shortly going to die.


"You make any moves," Johnson yelled, "and I'll blow this guy's fucking head off, understand?"


"Yes, we understand," Theo told him.


The whalers, pushing Schopf in front of them, advanced down the deck, the U Boat's searchlight tracking their every move. Johnson's three companions looked around them, noted the concealed armed teams, the enormous fin of the U Boat close alongside with a machine gun on the birdcage. They looked and thought of their wives and girlfriends back home. They wondered whether their insurrection was worth their lives. One, carrying 'Fatty's' rifle, quietly laid it on the deck and put his hands on his head. He then walked back to the hatch until grabbed by armed sailors and thrown prone onto his face. 


Johnson's remaining two supporters looked back. One said, 'sorry Jonno,' then he too put his weapon down and waited for the Germans to grab him. Johnson looked behind him. His sole remaining supporter put his hands out apologetically, then he also gave up. Johnson was on his own.


Behind him a dozen sailors rushed the hatch and stormed down into the mess. Johnson stared about him wildly, trying to find a way out of his predicament.


"You must give up," Theo told him, "there is no point to this. Let the boy go and we will talk, yes?"


Johnson could see the point even though no-one else could. He was saying, 'don't tread on me,' like the Revolutionary War banner. He was saying, 'Johnson was not about to be kicked around.' He'd been saying that ever since he'd knifed his alcoholic Father in the gut for slugging his Mother.


"Fuck you!" he yelled, and sent Schopf sprawling with his boot. He then raised his rifle to his shoulder. Before the barrel came up, 12 bullets sent him flying over the deck to land spreadeagled on his back, dead.


As the armed team stormed into the mess, the remaining whalers retreated, their Skipper ordering them to put their hands on their heads.


"Don't shoot!" he yelled, "don't shoot!"


The Germans pushed each man onto his face and ordered them to keep their hands on their heads. Even Margaret and Robert Begg and Rufe, their crewman, were ordered to the deck. The armed sailors then collected the weapons and began searching the prisoners.


Von Seydlitz and Theo descended into the mess to inspect the damage. He was outraged, particularly when he saw the dead guard at the foot of the ladder. He'd had enough of keeping prisoners. He determined he was going to get rid of them anyway he could.


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HMS Sussex sailed from San Diego as soon as she was coaled and provisioned. Debenham laid in a course straight for the Marquesas. He still thought of that strange sailing vessel and its odd behaviour. He wondered whether it had any connection to the disappearance of the American Whaler.


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RFS Chasseur was a large torpedo boat, or small Destroyer, of the same class as the RFS Mousquette, blown out of the water near Penang by the German raider SMS Emden in 1914. The Chasseur's two 3 pounder guns, however, had rarely been fired and the crew were uncertain if they would, now. Her torpedo tubes were unusable and empty.


It was an old design, and a class of vessel no-longer popular with the World's Navies. Most, like Chasseur, had been relegated to second line duties as Colonial patrol vessels or harbour utilities. Chasseur was based at Atuona in the Southern Marquesas as the French Navy's sole representative in that remote area.


Her captain, Commandant Jean Jacque Krusenbourg, received the message from  Headquarters as evening was falling. Unwilling to risk his vessel at night in those waters, he ordered the Chasseur coaled and waited till morning before sailing. He was only going to pick up an American castaway from the Jesuit mission on Eiao. He could see little urgency in the matter.


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Von Seydlitz held a hasty enquiry into the riot of the prisoners. Kapitan Himmel and Theo Seekt also presided. Many of the Seeteufel's crew were only too happy to point out the ringleaders and troublemakers. In the end, some 18 were identified, including the 'Respect's' Skipper Mitchell, whose only crime was to lose momentary authority. These were unceremoniously bundled on to U125 to be confined in the U Boat's empty cargo spaces. They would be going back to Germany with her.


That left 15 prisoners left, including the Beggs and Rufe. Von Seydlitz decided to put these on the first Neutral ship he encountered, he wanted no more prisoners on board his ship.


After she was provisioned from the 'Milk Cow' U Boat, the Seeteufel got a new coat of paint. The crew laboured all the next day painting the hull black. She would now have a new identity, obtained from the registry of similar Barquentine-rigged vessels. She now wore the Swedish flag and carried the name, SV Viggen.


Once underway, she headed back towards the Marquesas to retrieve her missing crewman. On the way, she fell in with the British Phosphate Commission's steamer SS Moorea. Ordering her crew into their lifeboats, von Seydlitz sunk her with shellfire. The British crew, he left to find their own way to land.


Fortunately for the drifting sailors, another phosphate carrier was only a days steaming behind the Moorea. They picked up the crew and radioed the important news to the outside World. A German raider was loose in the Eastern Pacific.


KATZMAREK(c)









