Shout at the Devil - Smith Wilbur - Страница 72

After long discussions with his medical officer, von Kleine had issued orders to protect the health of his men. Orders, for the purification of water, the disposal of sanitation and waste, for the issue of five grains of quinine daily to each man, and fifty other safeguards to health and morale.

He had ordered an inventory made of stocks of food and supplies, and he was satisfied that with care he could subsist for a further four months. Thereafter he would be reduced to fishing and hunting, and foraging.

He had despatched Kyller upstream to make contact with the German Commissioner, and solicit his full cooperation.

Four days have(] been spent in hiding the Blitcher under her camouflage, in setting up a complete workshop on the foredeck under sun awnings, so that the engineers could work in comparative comfort.

Now at last they had begun a full underwater appraisal of Blitcher's wounds.

Behind him he heard the petty officer pass an order to the team at the winch. "Bring him up slowly the donkey engine spluttered into life, and the winch clattered and whined shrilly. Von Kleine stirred against the rail and focused his full attention on the water below him.

The heavy line and air pipe reeled in smoothly, then suddenly the surface bulged and the body of the diver was lifted dangling on the line. Black in shiny wet rubber, the three brass-bound cyclopean eyes of his helmet glaring, grotesque as a sea monster, he was swung inboard and lowered to the deck.

Two seamen hurried forward and unscrewed the bolts at the neck, lifted off the heavy helmet, and exposed the head of the engineering commander, Lochtkamper. The heavy face, flat and lined as that of a mastiff, was made heavier than usual by the thoughtful frown it now wore. He looked across at his captain and shook his head slightly.

"Come to my cabin when you are ready, Commander," said von Kleine, and walked away.

"A small glass of cognac?" von Kleine suggested. I'd like that, sir." Commander Lochtkamper looked out of place in the elegance of the cabin.

The hands that accepted the glass were big, knuckles scarred and enlarged by constant violent contact with metal, the skin etched deeply with oil and engine filth. When he sank into the chair at his captain's invitation, his legs seemed to have too many knees.

"WelP asked von Kleine, and Lochtkamper launched into his report. He spoke for ten minutes and von Kleine followed him slowly through the maze of technicalities where strange and irrelevant obscenities grew along the way. In moments of deep concentration such as these, Lochtkamper fell back on the gutter idiom of his native Hamburg, and von Kleine was unable to suppress a smile when he learned that the copulatory torpedo had committed a perversion on one of the main frames, springing the plating whose morals were definitely suspect. The damage sounded like that suffered in a brothel during a Saturday night brawl.

"Can You repair it? "von Kleine asked at last.

It will mean cutting away all the obscenely damaged plating, lifting it to the deck, re cutting it, welding and shaping it. But we will still be short of at least eight hundred obscene square feet of plate, sir."

"A commodity not readily obtainable in the delta of the Rufiji river," von Kleine mused.

"No, sir."

"How long will it take You if I can get the plating for You? "Two months, perhaps. "When can you start?"

"Now, sir."

"Do it then," said von Kleine, and Lochtkamper drained his glass, smacked his lips, and stood up. "Very good cognac." , sir," he complimented his captain, and shambled out of the cabin.

Glaring upward at the massive warship, Herman Fleischer surveyed the battle damage with the uncomprehending curiosity of a landsman. He saw the gaping ulcers where Orion's shells had struck, the black blight where the flames had raged through her, the irregular rash with which the splinters had pierced and peppered her upper works and then he dropped his eyes to the bows.

Work cradles were suspended a few feet above the water, and upon them clutters of seamen were illuminated by the crackling blue glare of the welding torches.

"God in heaven, what a beating!" He spoke with sadistic relish.

Kyller ignored the remark. He was directing the native helmsman of the launch to the landing ladder that had been rigged down the side of Blitcher. Not even the presence of this sweaty peasant, Fleischer, could spoil his pleasure in this moment of homecoming. To Ernst Kyller, the Blitcher was home in the deep sense of the word; it contained all that he valued in life, including the man for whom he bore a devotion surpassing the natural duty of a son to his father.

He was savouring the anticipation of von Kleine's smile and words of commendation for another task well done.

"Ah, Kyller!" Von Kleine rose from behind his desk and moved around it to greet his lieutenant.

"Back so soon? Did you find Fleischer?"

"He is waiting outside, sir."

"Good, good. Bring him in." Herman Fleischer paused in the companion-way and blinked suspiciously around the cabin. His mind was automatically converting the furnishings into Reichsmarks, the rugs were silk Teheran in blue and gold and red, the chairs were in dark buttoned leather, all the heavy furniture, including the panelling, was polished mahogany. The light fittings were worked in brass, the glasses in the liquor cabinet were sparkling diamond crystal flanked by a platoon of bottles that wore the uniforms of the great houses of Champagne and Alsace and the Rhine. There was a portrait in oils opposite the desk of two women, both beautiful golden women, clearly mother and daughter. The portholes were curtained with forest-green velvet, corded and tasselled in gold.