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Kurt threw himself inside, as did the others. A swarm of shells accompanied
them. There were screams....
Kurt rose, jerked the watertight door shut. "You all right?" he asked. Stupid
question. The sailors were broken, ruined, chopped meat. The Australian, whom
they had pushed ahead of them and thus shielded with their bodies, groaned
weakly. Kurt, with the reluctance of one touching a poisonous snake the pilot
was that mythical Enemy he had his life long been conditioned to fear and
hate
placed his fingers against the man's cheek. The Australian's eyelids
fluttered. Kurt looked at him closely, surprised.
This was an old man, at least sixty, from his brass almost certainly a
high-ranking officer. Such an ancient flying combat?
"Got by my own mates." He coughed. A rough smile tugged the corners of his
mouth. "Three Meetings now, thirty-four missions, shot down three times. And
finally scragged by my own wing man." He laughed weakly. Kurt sat silently
over him said nothing because he felt the man would not want him to stared as
blood trickled over his fingers Australian blood, yet warm, red, human.
"Ah, but it's the Enemy's fault, isn't it?" the pilot murmured. "Oh, Billy, my
admiral brother Bill, you'll play avenger for me, won't you?" He coughed
gurglingly, spit up red foam. "Neatly tucked them in, didn't we? Bottled them
up. ... Maybe this's the true Last Meeting. . . .
Molly!" Suddenly he was frightened, terribly frightened.
Though he was as suddenly no longer an enemy, Kurt jerked his hand away,
frightened himself. This could not
be far in his own future....
"Molly!" the Australian gasped again then seemed deflated when his soul
departed.
Kurt rose slowly, suffering overpowering sadness. He
163
had so wanted to talk to this man, even if only in anger, to make contact with
a fragment of the other side. But the fellow had evaded him, died without
saying anything.
Or had he? Halfway to the bridge, in midstride, he jerked to a halt, finally
grasping the sense of those dying words. Bottle? A picture of Ceylon, India,
and the sea between flashed across his mind, and he considered the odd fact
that air attacks always came from the south. And he knew
What seemed an easy victory at Palk Strait was but a small gambit in a huge
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defeat a-making. Almost certainly, another Australian force had hidden east of
Ceylon and was now closing the Gulf of Mannar behind the Western armada. It
had to be. . . . The northern force would hold while the southern took the
auxiliaries from the rear, wolves into sheep poorly shepherded, destroying,
and the
Western fighting units would be without supplies. They would be easy killing
once their ammunition was gone. He ran on to the bridge, reported his
suspicions to von Lappus and Haber.
While he talked, he watched Haber patch a deathly pale Hans's arm. A shell
fragment had taken a chunk from it. Shock, plus the depression he had been
suffering of late, had raped away the last of Wiedermann's cock-
iness. His expression was that worn when his father was about to descend on
him with a belt. But the punishment, this time, would be final.
The night marched slowly on. Enemy aircraft less than a dozen now came and
went, concentrating on the escorts. Kurt wondered if this was the prelude to a
surface engagement. Made sense, if his theory were correct.
Jager received her share of attention, but, by zigzag-
ging, changing speed, and luck, she remained relatively unscathed. Plenty of
holes from strafing; nothing interfer-
ing with ship's operations.
Von Lappus paced. Any plan he may have had had to be scrapped, now Jager was
in a trap. His face was pale and tired, his weight seemed to pull him down.
"How far to the Indian coast?" he asked.
Kurt went to the chart table. "Excuse me, Paul." He studied the charts. "Fifty
kilometers, sir."
"And Ceylon?"
"The same. We're right in the middle."
"We'll head for the mainland. If we can't hide, we'll beach her and walk."
Kurt's mind rushed back to the visitor of a week ear-
lier. Others had tried walking home.
"Left full rudder. All ahead standard. Tell the engine room to stand by for
emergency maneuvers. I want all boilers on the line, burning coal. Ask how
long they'll need to get full steam."
The helmsman, lee helmsman, and telephone talker did as they were directed.
All eyes were on the Captain, expectant.
"Captain," said the phone talker, "they say they'll need a half hour to get
superheat on the standby boilers. ..."
"Tell them to get those fires burning, and to call as soon as they can put the
boilers on the line." Von Lappus resumed pacing. "How long till sunrise?"
"About two hours, sir," said Kurt. "But we'll have light before then."
"Lookout reports flashing light from the screen com-
mander, sir," a phone talker announced.
Kurt grabbed a memo pad and stepped out on the starboard wing. "Brecht, get up
to the signal bridge and tell them we're ready to receive. Take your time."
Haber grabbed the signal book as Brecht scrambled up the ladder to the signal
bridge. The commodore's message soon arrived. Kurt noted the groups. Haber,
looking over his shoulder, searched the signal book for their meanings.
"Should've known," Haber said shortly. "He wants to know where we're going.
Captain?"
Von Lappus shrugged. "Send some nonsense. 'Proceed-
ing independently to air bedding, run a degaussing range, and attack with
missiles and depth charges.' By the time he figures that out, we'll be clear.
I don't think he'd shoot, anyway."
Haber encoded the message, taking his time. Kurt handed it up to Brecht.
Brecht sent it slowly, as if unfa-
miliar with the light. All the while, the range between ships opened at a
relative twelve knots.
That range opened to four kilometers. The commodore
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requested a repeat. Brecht sent the message again, with minor changes. Before
more was heard, JSger could no longer read the incoming.
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