Letterstime - Ein Geleitzug: Homeward Bound? Part XLVIII
July 8, 1915
---- Imperator, stopped
It was the odor that started it.
The heavenly, saliva-starting aroma of batter and cinnamon and apples drew them like moths to a night light. It was not hunger - well, not theirs at least - that drove them. They were frantic in their need, and their desperation plucked from them any diplomacy they might have had, and they had essentially none to start.
The four women responsible for the scents were sisters, wives of four different passenger-recruits. One husband was a power systems engineer, another a systems designer, and two others field engineers or high-level craftsmen. The sisters' choices in mates had been shaped by their own parents. Their father had been a renowned engineer himself, with numerous patents to his name, and their mother a respected science teacher. The girls had thus grown up in a household rich in science and engineer dialogues.
None of the girls had become an engineer or scientist, but they had each learned two basic truths. First, engineers were absolutely helpless when faced with a pretty face that could speak their lingo. (NOTE 1) And, second, that engineers had been continuously employable since the Renaissance. (NOTE 2)
Armed with that knowledge, all the sisters had had to do was to survey the landscape of engineers and pick out the topography that most interested them.
The four were all fine cooks - chemistry, temperature management, and procedure control - and so the chef-less kitchen had proved no impediment. In fact, they considered it a welcome opportunity and their hungry children a more than adequate excuse. Batter was easy, and there were containers of applesauce, sugar, and cinnamon readily at hand. There were even a few apples hanging in small nets from the overhead.
When the frantic ones made their entrance, the eldest sister - Christine - was rolling out thin cakes alongside the third sister - Barbara. The second eldest - Patricia - was melting more butter and lifting cakes out of the griddles as they became ready, and the youngest - Sandra - was slicing apples into wafers for insertion. An efficiency expert would have waxed just as rapturous at their synchronicity and teamwork as a gourmet would have at their product. Their eight children, however, were consuming the full output of the sisters team as they generally did at family gatherings such that a gourmet would have been hard put to garner enough for any sort of taste test.
"Mom!" The multi-voiced intruder alarm produced immediate teamwork of a much different sort.
"Who are you?" That was from the third oldest. She was the largest of the women and had long ago learned that loud and very direct questions put men back on their heels. In this case, if her questions did not work, she was confident her rolling pin would.
"They're Ottomans. They're with that Sultan of theirs." This was the oldest. She knew Hadi was not a Sultan, but it identified them easiest for the others. Also, being publicly mis-identified put men even further on the defensive.
Meanwhile, both rolling pin sisters had moved to the fore, placing themselves between the strangers and the kids, tools at the ready. Side-by-side, their spacing left each other precisely enough swinging space. Veterans of XII Victrix would have nodded approval.
"By the Beard of the Prophet! We mean no ... harm!"
["Weapons! Where had they been hiding them?"]
["The others, what are they doing?!"]
"Then why aren't you all still up there on the Promenade Deck with your Sultan?" Patricia had said these words as she moved into position on the left flank, in her hand was a heavy skillet. Butter sizzled ominously as it dripped off one edge.
["Ah!] They knew where the Master was. What else did they know?
"What do you want?" The youngest thrust these words in from the other flank, her apple slicing knife steady in her hand. The other two spoke as much to let their sisters know they were at their sides without the need to shift their attention, as they did to maintain the initiative.
["Infidels! Oh-oh!"] ["Disgusting. Even their women are warriors!"]
["Their litters!"] The oldest boys had picked up cups and glasses, and not for drinking. The others had gotten out of the line of fire, but were clearly gathering ammo.
"Either start talking in English ..." began Christine, "... or get out of here!" Barbara concluded. Each had a sister on her flank and their boys loved baseball and breaking crockery. It was time.
"Peace! Peace be upon you!" The senior among the servants found his voice. "It is your help we seek. Most humbly seek." [Hands out," he added. "No weapons. Back away, both of you."]
["I take no orders from you."] ["Let us cede him this," said the third. "Do you want to face Him again without an offering?" "Oh-oh! I will abide."]
"English!" Barbara stamped her foot on the deck. The men flinched. It was important to retain the initiative.
"Our Master ... hungers." The creases in the swarthy face moved in unfamiliar patterns with effort. "Angry He is ... with us when we ... fail Him." The capital letters and his concerns easily crossed the language barrier. Behind him, heads nodded within cowled burnouses.
"There's another kitchen ... that way," Barbara pointed imperiously. Crockery sounds continued behind the women as their children mounded glassware on the table like snowballs. Two of the daughters giggled to each other in apparent martial eagerness.
"There is no one there ... no cooks."
"So?" Sandra inserted. "Don't servants cook for their master?"
["Ssss!"] The sound narrowed the Americans' eyes. ["Peace! They are only infidels, women."]
"We are not ... cooks. We ... guards we are."
"Hmmph!" Sandra's scorn was evident. Despite being the baby of the family, she had been given no choice on the matter herself and so had little sympathy for others, irrespective of gender or nationality.
"We're almost out of applesauce," Christine suggested obliquely, not taking her eyes off the men. The other women acknowledged with small sounds, but their eyes did not waver. They had been sampling as they cooked and what they had left would probably finish feeding the kids. However, the oldest boys could be bottomless pits and their husbands might be along.
"We can cook," Patricia began, gauging the tones. "But the cupboards," she nodded at the open compartments, "are bare." She relaxed a trifle as the men traded glances. More than words could cross language barrier.
"What can you offer us?" Barbara was oft the lead bargainer. These men had something and they wanted something; both facts were obvious. It remained only to work out terms.
["Husam, the fruit preserves would be worthy."]
The fida'iyin had, of course, taken what they could of things the Master had favored. For situations not unlike this, in fact.
["Shahin, can these be trusted?"]
["Miz Beulah served us well!"] The double-meaning was the same in both languages. (NOTE 3)
["That is so!"] The men smiled at the memory, unaware of the sinister appearances it created.
"Well?" Barbara did not want them to get too comfortable. The men swallowed, though mostly at the memory of blueberry chicken and oh-so-savory rolls.
"Some we have. Tins. Jam, the strawberry."
"Yes, that will work," Barbara nodded in satisfaction. "Strawberry crepes. There still cream left? Good. Yes, we have everything we need right here ... except for the strawberries. Preserves? Jelly?" The men blinked in confusion. "No matter. You bring it here, and we can cook it.
"But!"
"Yes?" The man asked warily.
"One for you - or your master - and one for us. One for you, one for us."
The men frowned. They did not reject the proposal, but there was clearly some sort of issue.
"How much do you have?" Christine asked at their reaction. "Um, how big are the tins?"
"Two," said the speaker, and indicated a size with his hands. They had more, of course, but he was prepared only to admit to two. It looked to be a long day and there remained tomorrow.
"This deep?" Patricia added, indicating a thickness with the hand not holding the skillet. The applesauce had been in similar tins. The man nodded in reply.
"That big? A dozen each?" This was Sandra. "Is there enough cream for that many?"
"No," said Christine, "but I saw some cheese in there. Call it a dozen and a half each." She had also seen some ham, but recalled the others' likely religion.
"Yes," Patricia agreed, "and I think the kids have about had their fill of apple and we've still got some of that left."
"Here," announced Barbara, drawing the glazing eyes of the men back to her. The sisters had caused this effect on men many times since they'd hit puberty.
"You bring two tins," she held up two fingers, "ones just like you showed, and we'll make you at least twenty crepes for you master. Maybe twenty-four."
"Twenty-four? Of ... cakes like those?" Both men behind the speaker licked their lips at the sweet and flavored scents.
"Yes, your master will get three different kinds. Most will be strawberry, but some will cheese, and a few will be apple."
["Husam, let us do this thing!"]
"How long? The Master ...."
"Five minutes ...," Barbara began.
"We can have some ready and waiting for you," offered Christine. "You give us the two tins, and we'll give you ... four crepes to take to your ... master as soon as you hand them over."
"You give us two tins, we give you four crepes," Barbara summarized, extending fingers of her left hand as she gestured. "Then we'll cook more."
"It is agreed!"
The men left, one of them actually lifting the hem of his robes to speed his passage. The sisters stood down, and the boys sighed as they unstacked crockery.
"Strawberry crepes," murmured one of the girls. The others smiled. "Mmmmm!" went the chorus.
---- Regensburg, course 310, speed 21 knots
"Sir, contact, bearing 350."
"Range?" Wolferein asked, raising his binoculars along the announced bearing. His two half-flotillas were spread out well ahead in the van on the northern side of the track. There was no smoke plume on the horizon.
"Estimate is 10,000 yards, looks like a foundered ship."
Yes, there was something over there. The shape was wrong for a submarine.
"Flags, for B.110: 'Investigate contact, bearing 350.' Signals, inform flag." He was not about to divert more than a single TB on any wreck smaller than a dreadnought.
---- Moltke, stopped
"Sir, from Ostfriesland: "Helgoland, 30 minutes, 8 knots'."
"Acknowledge," said Letters, rubbing at his jaw thoughtfully.
"Do you intend to wait?" Admiral Hanzik's tone was casual.
"Ja," the Baron replied. "This is the only place out here where I can have any confidence at all that there are no enemy u-boats. If there were any here, they'd already've torpedoed us and they have not. Meanwhile, I have three full half-flotillas patrolling the perimeter to prevent their approach."
Hanzik nodded at this. He could, after all, do little else.
"But you are quite correct. It is time to prepare. Flags, hoist Rostock's number and: 'Course 160, 8 knots, 30 minutes'."
---- B.110, course, 310, speed 21 knots
"Acknowledge, ordered Oberleutnant Kelly. "Helm, three degrees right rudder. Come to course 350. Gently now.
"Lookouts! Have you spotted the contact?"
"No, sir. Not yet." Their vantage was lower than the ones enjoyed by their opposite numbers aboard Graudenz.
"Sir, steady on 350."
"Very well."
"Sir, contact on bearing 358. Range 9,000 yards."
"Very well. Helm, come left to 340."
Kelly wanted a smidge of parallax going to help identification. Also, if this was an enemy that still had torpedoes, he wanted to set up ahead of time a definite bearing drift. That way, he could put his rudder over and go the other way.
"Sir, wreckage, or small boats in the water, same range and bearing."
---- Imperator, stopped
"Master, a small boat approaches."
Hadi paused with his hand held high.
"Master, it came from the leader great ship and bears one with an officer's uniform."
The Great One lowered his hand slowly, panting slightly, and turned away from the quivering supine forms before him. He did not, however, move even a single step towards the rail. As a distraction, this was to be another failure. It would hardly gain them enough time for their welts to rise.
"Master! From the kitchen!"
Hadi narrowed his eyes at the covered salver with suspicion.
"You said that the cooks had gone." His scowl eased a fraction as a tendril of odor threaded its way into his noble nostrils.
The servants' spirits lifted at the sight. The one with the food stepped daringly towards the table where the Master was accustomed to take such offerings, the one beside the comfortable, heavily be-pillowed deck chair. They offered silent and fervent thanks to Allah when the Great One followed.
Hadi lifted the cover and regarded the small flat, folded cakes. The tip of his tongue appeared momentarily between thick lips. The servants hid their sighs carefully when he sat. The crisis just might have passed - but only if the food was worthy!
"Mmmm," Hadi said, inadvertently echoing the girls below. The apple and cinnamon flavors danced across his tutored palate. "These others?"
"Honeyed cheese," the servant said proudly, and the Mighty One's expression eased more.
"Only four?" They had lasted little more than two minutes.
"More are coming, Master!" "Yes, yes, they are best served hot, we were told."
Hadi nodded, and sat back to wait.
"Four more," proclaimed another hardly a minute later. "These are the strawberry."
"Hmmmm," replied the Great One, blessedly betraying eagerness as he reached.
---- Inconstant, course 315, speed 12.5 knots
"Sir, contact bearing 130. Plume, sir. On the horizon."
That was almost dead astern! The XO/CO went out on the tiny wing to look back himself, trying to conceal the sinking feeling in his gut. A stern chase was a long chase, but the plume was clearly getting larger with dismaying alacrity.
"Sir, contact bearing 110, plume, a small one."
"Sir, new plume, bearing 145."
There was no point in denying it any further.
"Flags, signal to the others to wireless flag. Multiple plumes, overtake course." They had previously reported Inconstant's best speed.
"Aye, aye, sir."
"Chief," the XO/CO beckoned, calling his senior chief petty officer over.
"Sir?"
"Forty-two wounded?"
"Forty now, sir." The older man's voice was level. "Doc just sent up that Smithers and Brownridge died a quarter-hour ago."
The officer closed his eyes for a moment. They'd cast off with 268 and forty-six - now forty-eight - were dead.
"How fast could you get them all off?"
The enlisted man's faced worked.
"All of them? Three minutes, four at the most. That's having them already in the boats, heaving to, and letting the destroyers recover them, abandoning the boats."
"It may not come to that, chief, but get started on it. Now."
"Aye, aye, sir."
---- Derfflinger, course 310, speed 21 knots
"Sir, Regensburg reports the contact was a sunk British torpedoboat - 68 prisoners."
"Very well," Necki replied.
"Sir, new contact bearing 315."
"Multiple contacts, sir. Range 20,000 yards. Constant bearing."
If the ships were not dead in the water, then they were either heading directly at them or away.
"Hoist the sighting."
The cruisers in the van would be spotting them any second, so this was mainly for those astern and the light ships out on the flanks.
Author's NOTEs:
1) Personal experience of the author.
2) Renaissance line shamelessly lifted from a wonderful and witty presentation by Doria Russell, author of The Sparrow, given on March 23, 2006, at Culbreth Theatre, UVA, during the 2006 Virginia Festival of the Book.
3) http://www.thequickbluefox.com/EinG-jun18-decisions-22.html
July 8, 1915
---- Imperator, stopped
It was the odor that started it.
The heavenly, saliva-starting aroma of batter and cinnamon and apples drew them like moths to a night light. It was not hunger - well, not theirs at least - that drove them. They were frantic in their need, and their desperation plucked from them any diplomacy they might have had, and they had essentially none to start.
The four women responsible for the scents were sisters, wives of four different passenger-recruits. One husband was a power systems engineer, another a systems designer, and two others field engineers or high-level craftsmen. The sisters' choices in mates had been shaped by their own parents. Their father had been a renowned engineer himself, with numerous patents to his name, and their mother a respected science teacher. The girls had thus grown up in a household rich in science and engineer dialogues.
None of the girls had become an engineer or scientist, but they had each learned two basic truths. First, engineers were absolutely helpless when faced with a pretty face that could speak their lingo. (NOTE 1) And, second, that engineers had been continuously employable since the Renaissance. (NOTE 2)
Armed with that knowledge, all the sisters had had to do was to survey the landscape of engineers and pick out the topography that most interested them.
The four were all fine cooks - chemistry, temperature management, and procedure control - and so the chef-less kitchen had proved no impediment. In fact, they considered it a welcome opportunity and their hungry children a more than adequate excuse. Batter was easy, and there were containers of applesauce, sugar, and cinnamon readily at hand. There were even a few apples hanging in small nets from the overhead.
When the frantic ones made their entrance, the eldest sister - Christine - was rolling out thin cakes alongside the third sister - Barbara. The second eldest - Patricia - was melting more butter and lifting cakes out of the griddles as they became ready, and the youngest - Sandra - was slicing apples into wafers for insertion. An efficiency expert would have waxed just as rapturous at their synchronicity and teamwork as a gourmet would have at their product. Their eight children, however, were consuming the full output of the sisters team as they generally did at family gatherings such that a gourmet would have been hard put to garner enough for any sort of taste test.
"Mom!" The multi-voiced intruder alarm produced immediate teamwork of a much different sort.
"Who are you?" That was from the third oldest. She was the largest of the women and had long ago learned that loud and very direct questions put men back on their heels. In this case, if her questions did not work, she was confident her rolling pin would.
"They're Ottomans. They're with that Sultan of theirs." This was the oldest. She knew Hadi was not a Sultan, but it identified them easiest for the others. Also, being publicly mis-identified put men even further on the defensive.
Meanwhile, both rolling pin sisters had moved to the fore, placing themselves between the strangers and the kids, tools at the ready. Side-by-side, their spacing left each other precisely enough swinging space. Veterans of XII Victrix would have nodded approval.
"By the Beard of the Prophet! We mean no ... harm!"
["Weapons! Where had they been hiding them?"]
["The others, what are they doing?!"]
"Then why aren't you all still up there on the Promenade Deck with your Sultan?" Patricia had said these words as she moved into position on the left flank, in her hand was a heavy skillet. Butter sizzled ominously as it dripped off one edge.
["Ah!] They knew where the Master was. What else did they know?
"What do you want?" The youngest thrust these words in from the other flank, her apple slicing knife steady in her hand. The other two spoke as much to let their sisters know they were at their sides without the need to shift their attention, as they did to maintain the initiative.
["Infidels! Oh-oh!"] ["Disgusting. Even their women are warriors!"]
["Their litters!"] The oldest boys had picked up cups and glasses, and not for drinking. The others had gotten out of the line of fire, but were clearly gathering ammo.
"Either start talking in English ..." began Christine, "... or get out of here!" Barbara concluded. Each had a sister on her flank and their boys loved baseball and breaking crockery. It was time.
"Peace! Peace be upon you!" The senior among the servants found his voice. "It is your help we seek. Most humbly seek." [Hands out," he added. "No weapons. Back away, both of you."]
["I take no orders from you."] ["Let us cede him this," said the third. "Do you want to face Him again without an offering?" "Oh-oh! I will abide."]
"English!" Barbara stamped her foot on the deck. The men flinched. It was important to retain the initiative.
"Our Master ... hungers." The creases in the swarthy face moved in unfamiliar patterns with effort. "Angry He is ... with us when we ... fail Him." The capital letters and his concerns easily crossed the language barrier. Behind him, heads nodded within cowled burnouses.
"There's another kitchen ... that way," Barbara pointed imperiously. Crockery sounds continued behind the women as their children mounded glassware on the table like snowballs. Two of the daughters giggled to each other in apparent martial eagerness.
"There is no one there ... no cooks."
"So?" Sandra inserted. "Don't servants cook for their master?"
["Ssss!"] The sound narrowed the Americans' eyes. ["Peace! They are only infidels, women."]
"We are not ... cooks. We ... guards we are."
"Hmmph!" Sandra's scorn was evident. Despite being the baby of the family, she had been given no choice on the matter herself and so had little sympathy for others, irrespective of gender or nationality.
"We're almost out of applesauce," Christine suggested obliquely, not taking her eyes off the men. The other women acknowledged with small sounds, but their eyes did not waver. They had been sampling as they cooked and what they had left would probably finish feeding the kids. However, the oldest boys could be bottomless pits and their husbands might be along.
"We can cook," Patricia began, gauging the tones. "But the cupboards," she nodded at the open compartments, "are bare." She relaxed a trifle as the men traded glances. More than words could cross language barrier.
"What can you offer us?" Barbara was oft the lead bargainer. These men had something and they wanted something; both facts were obvious. It remained only to work out terms.
["Husam, the fruit preserves would be worthy."]
The fida'iyin had, of course, taken what they could of things the Master had favored. For situations not unlike this, in fact.
["Shahin, can these be trusted?"]
["Miz Beulah served us well!"] The double-meaning was the same in both languages. (NOTE 3)
["That is so!"] The men smiled at the memory, unaware of the sinister appearances it created.
"Well?" Barbara did not want them to get too comfortable. The men swallowed, though mostly at the memory of blueberry chicken and oh-so-savory rolls.
"Some we have. Tins. Jam, the strawberry."
"Yes, that will work," Barbara nodded in satisfaction. "Strawberry crepes. There still cream left? Good. Yes, we have everything we need right here ... except for the strawberries. Preserves? Jelly?" The men blinked in confusion. "No matter. You bring it here, and we can cook it.
"But!"
"Yes?" The man asked warily.
"One for you - or your master - and one for us. One for you, one for us."
The men frowned. They did not reject the proposal, but there was clearly some sort of issue.
"How much do you have?" Christine asked at their reaction. "Um, how big are the tins?"
"Two," said the speaker, and indicated a size with his hands. They had more, of course, but he was prepared only to admit to two. It looked to be a long day and there remained tomorrow.
"This deep?" Patricia added, indicating a thickness with the hand not holding the skillet. The applesauce had been in similar tins. The man nodded in reply.
"That big? A dozen each?" This was Sandra. "Is there enough cream for that many?"
"No," said Christine, "but I saw some cheese in there. Call it a dozen and a half each." She had also seen some ham, but recalled the others' likely religion.
"Yes," Patricia agreed, "and I think the kids have about had their fill of apple and we've still got some of that left."
"Here," announced Barbara, drawing the glazing eyes of the men back to her. The sisters had caused this effect on men many times since they'd hit puberty.
"You bring two tins," she held up two fingers, "ones just like you showed, and we'll make you at least twenty crepes for you master. Maybe twenty-four."
"Twenty-four? Of ... cakes like those?" Both men behind the speaker licked their lips at the sweet and flavored scents.
"Yes, your master will get three different kinds. Most will be strawberry, but some will cheese, and a few will be apple."
["Husam, let us do this thing!"]
"How long? The Master ...."
"Five minutes ...," Barbara began.
"We can have some ready and waiting for you," offered Christine. "You give us the two tins, and we'll give you ... four crepes to take to your ... master as soon as you hand them over."
"You give us two tins, we give you four crepes," Barbara summarized, extending fingers of her left hand as she gestured. "Then we'll cook more."
"It is agreed!"
The men left, one of them actually lifting the hem of his robes to speed his passage. The sisters stood down, and the boys sighed as they unstacked crockery.
"Strawberry crepes," murmured one of the girls. The others smiled. "Mmmmm!" went the chorus.
---- Regensburg, course 310, speed 21 knots
"Sir, contact, bearing 350."
"Range?" Wolferein asked, raising his binoculars along the announced bearing. His two half-flotillas were spread out well ahead in the van on the northern side of the track. There was no smoke plume on the horizon.
"Estimate is 10,000 yards, looks like a foundered ship."
Yes, there was something over there. The shape was wrong for a submarine.
"Flags, for B.110: 'Investigate contact, bearing 350.' Signals, inform flag." He was not about to divert more than a single TB on any wreck smaller than a dreadnought.
---- Moltke, stopped
"Sir, from Ostfriesland: "Helgoland, 30 minutes, 8 knots'."
"Acknowledge," said Letters, rubbing at his jaw thoughtfully.
"Do you intend to wait?" Admiral Hanzik's tone was casual.
"Ja," the Baron replied. "This is the only place out here where I can have any confidence at all that there are no enemy u-boats. If there were any here, they'd already've torpedoed us and they have not. Meanwhile, I have three full half-flotillas patrolling the perimeter to prevent their approach."
Hanzik nodded at this. He could, after all, do little else.
"But you are quite correct. It is time to prepare. Flags, hoist Rostock's number and: 'Course 160, 8 knots, 30 minutes'."
---- B.110, course, 310, speed 21 knots
"Acknowledge, ordered Oberleutnant Kelly. "Helm, three degrees right rudder. Come to course 350. Gently now.
"Lookouts! Have you spotted the contact?"
"No, sir. Not yet." Their vantage was lower than the ones enjoyed by their opposite numbers aboard Graudenz.
"Sir, steady on 350."
"Very well."
"Sir, contact on bearing 358. Range 9,000 yards."
"Very well. Helm, come left to 340."
Kelly wanted a smidge of parallax going to help identification. Also, if this was an enemy that still had torpedoes, he wanted to set up ahead of time a definite bearing drift. That way, he could put his rudder over and go the other way.
"Sir, wreckage, or small boats in the water, same range and bearing."
---- Imperator, stopped
"Master, a small boat approaches."
Hadi paused with his hand held high.
"Master, it came from the leader great ship and bears one with an officer's uniform."
The Great One lowered his hand slowly, panting slightly, and turned away from the quivering supine forms before him. He did not, however, move even a single step towards the rail. As a distraction, this was to be another failure. It would hardly gain them enough time for their welts to rise.
"Master! From the kitchen!"
Hadi narrowed his eyes at the covered salver with suspicion.
"You said that the cooks had gone." His scowl eased a fraction as a tendril of odor threaded its way into his noble nostrils.
The servants' spirits lifted at the sight. The one with the food stepped daringly towards the table where the Master was accustomed to take such offerings, the one beside the comfortable, heavily be-pillowed deck chair. They offered silent and fervent thanks to Allah when the Great One followed.
Hadi lifted the cover and regarded the small flat, folded cakes. The tip of his tongue appeared momentarily between thick lips. The servants hid their sighs carefully when he sat. The crisis just might have passed - but only if the food was worthy!
"Mmmm," Hadi said, inadvertently echoing the girls below. The apple and cinnamon flavors danced across his tutored palate. "These others?"
"Honeyed cheese," the servant said proudly, and the Mighty One's expression eased more.
"Only four?" They had lasted little more than two minutes.
"More are coming, Master!" "Yes, yes, they are best served hot, we were told."
Hadi nodded, and sat back to wait.
"Four more," proclaimed another hardly a minute later. "These are the strawberry."
"Hmmmm," replied the Great One, blessedly betraying eagerness as he reached.
---- Inconstant, course 315, speed 12.5 knots
"Sir, contact bearing 130. Plume, sir. On the horizon."
That was almost dead astern! The XO/CO went out on the tiny wing to look back himself, trying to conceal the sinking feeling in his gut. A stern chase was a long chase, but the plume was clearly getting larger with dismaying alacrity.
"Sir, contact bearing 110, plume, a small one."
"Sir, new plume, bearing 145."
There was no point in denying it any further.
"Flags, signal to the others to wireless flag. Multiple plumes, overtake course." They had previously reported Inconstant's best speed.
"Aye, aye, sir."
"Chief," the XO/CO beckoned, calling his senior chief petty officer over.
"Sir?"
"Forty-two wounded?"
"Forty now, sir." The older man's voice was level. "Doc just sent up that Smithers and Brownridge died a quarter-hour ago."
The officer closed his eyes for a moment. They'd cast off with 268 and forty-six - now forty-eight - were dead.
"How fast could you get them all off?"
The enlisted man's faced worked.
"All of them? Three minutes, four at the most. That's having them already in the boats, heaving to, and letting the destroyers recover them, abandoning the boats."
"It may not come to that, chief, but get started on it. Now."
"Aye, aye, sir."
---- Derfflinger, course 310, speed 21 knots
"Sir, Regensburg reports the contact was a sunk British torpedoboat - 68 prisoners."
"Very well," Necki replied.
"Sir, new contact bearing 315."
"Multiple contacts, sir. Range 20,000 yards. Constant bearing."
If the ships were not dead in the water, then they were either heading directly at them or away.
"Hoist the sighting."
The cruisers in the van would be spotting them any second, so this was mainly for those astern and the light ships out on the flanks.
Author's NOTEs:
1) Personal experience of the author.
2) Renaissance line shamelessly lifted from a wonderful and witty presentation by Doria Russell, author of The Sparrow, given on March 23, 2006, at Culbreth Theatre, UVA, during the 2006 Virginia Festival of the Book.
3) http://www.thequickbluefox.com/EinG-jun18-decisions-22.html
And it shows, great scene now Im hungry to - where are whipped Ottoman servants when you need them to fetch
something edible?
