six are on line.”
Langsdorff had them heading perpendicular to the wind, the force of the gale striking the ship all along her starboard side.
This explained why they were shipping so much green water to starboard and constantly rolling thirty-five degrees to port,
then whipping back on an even keel for a moment, only to do it again. And again. Even Max began to feel queasy. Normally a
captain would position his ship bows on into the wind with just enough power to maintain steerageway and ride it out. Since
the bow was the strongest part of the ship, this method had been used by mariners for centuries. Instead, Langsdorff proceeded
at his best speed with the storm abeam, which exposed the starboard side of
Graf Spee
to the full fury of the gale, creating the harshest conditions for the men—the ship rolling and plunging like a porpoise.
It would have been easier on the men to ride the storm out hove to, but
Spee
could not afford that luxury. They had to proceed northwest by north to make their rendezvous with
Altmark
.
“Ship is battened down,” Gerhard continued. “Main batteries only are manned. Captain is on the bridge.”
Max turned. Langsdorff was wedged in the back corner, buttoned tightly into his bridge coat, a glowing cigar jutting from
his mouth.
Max came to attention and saluted. “Sir, I relieve you.” Gerhard saluted in return. The relief crew assembled behind Max.
Max and Gerhard initialed the logbook. Formalities completed, the men moved to their posts, replacing the exhausted bridge
messengers and telephone talkers.
The only light on the bridge came from the illuminated instrument dials—the two chest-high compasses and the smaller gauges
giving speed, wind direction, engine revolutions, depth of the water. Max clung to one of the compasses, squinting in the
pale green glow. He waited for the right moment, then moved to the center of the bridge, grasping the handrail that ran underneath
the wide, square portholes, which showed nothing but black outside. Rain drummed loudly against the heavy glass. Beneath him,
the deck shuddered as the ship pounded into the waves.
“Weather officer believes we are on the edge of a vast storm but should be through by tomorrow.”
Max turned. The captain had come up beside him. “I hope so, sir,” Max said. “But this will delay our rendezvous with
Altmark
, yes?”
Langsdorff nodded, then leaned in close. “By a day, but it cannot be helped. The sea has other plans, as you can feel.”
“And where do we meet
Altmark
, sir?”
“Off the estuary of the Rio Plata. We will try to pick up an outbound British convoy after we resupply. Then home by Christmas,”
Langsdorff said, smiling at the last remark.
Max turned to the captain. “Home by Christmas, Herr Kapitän, would be the best present we could have.”
“I’m certain all aboard agree with you, Maximilian, myself most of all.”
Langsdorff said nothing else, only stared into the darkness. Max scanned the instrument dials. He had little to do with the
captain exercising direct command on the bridge, especially with a crew so well trained as that of
Graf Spee
. The men knew their jobs and performed them with little prodding from the officers.
The last two hours of night were a vigil, weary and long, Max’s body constantly tensed against the motion of the ship. To
let go of the handrail was to be flung to the deck, which happened twice to one of the bridge messengers. Dawn broke, revealing
vast mountains of water heaving around them. Wind caught the wave tops and blew the spray against the ship, rattling the vessel
as if striking the hull with chains.
Graf Spee
would rise to the top of one gray-green mountain, then down, down, Max holding fast, till the ship buried her prow into the
sea, shipping water in a torrent to the foot of the bridge. Just when it seemed as if she might not rise again,
Spee
would drag herself out of the trough and climb to the top of
Langsdorff had them heading perpendicular to the wind, the force of the gale striking the ship all along her starboard side.
This explained why they were shipping so much green water to starboard and constantly rolling thirty-five degrees to port,
then whipping back on an even keel for a moment, only to do it again. And again. Even Max began to feel queasy. Normally a
captain would position his ship bows on into the wind with just enough power to maintain steerageway and ride it out. Since
the bow was the strongest part of the ship, this method had been used by mariners for centuries. Instead, Langsdorff proceeded
at his best speed with the storm abeam, which exposed the starboard side of
Graf Spee
to the full fury of the gale, creating the harshest conditions for the men—the ship rolling and plunging like a porpoise.
It would have been easier on the men to ride the storm out hove to, but
Spee
could not afford that luxury. They had to proceed northwest by north to make their rendezvous with
Altmark
.
“Ship is battened down,” Gerhard continued. “Main batteries only are manned. Captain is on the bridge.”
Max turned. Langsdorff was wedged in the back corner, buttoned tightly into his bridge coat, a glowing cigar jutting from
his mouth.
Max came to attention and saluted. “Sir, I relieve you.” Gerhard saluted in return. The relief crew assembled behind Max.
Max and Gerhard initialed the logbook. Formalities completed, the men moved to their posts, replacing the exhausted bridge
messengers and telephone talkers.
The only light on the bridge came from the illuminated instrument dials—the two chest-high compasses and the smaller gauges
giving speed, wind direction, engine revolutions, depth of the water. Max clung to one of the compasses, squinting in the
pale green glow. He waited for the right moment, then moved to the center of the bridge, grasping the handrail that ran underneath
the wide, square portholes, which showed nothing but black outside. Rain drummed loudly against the heavy glass. Beneath him,
the deck shuddered as the ship pounded into the waves.
“Weather officer believes we are on the edge of a vast storm but should be through by tomorrow.”
Max turned. The captain had come up beside him. “I hope so, sir,” Max said. “But this will delay our rendezvous with
Altmark
, yes?”
Langsdorff nodded, then leaned in close. “By a day, but it cannot be helped. The sea has other plans, as you can feel.”
“And where do we meet
Altmark
, sir?”
“Off the estuary of the Rio Plata. We will try to pick up an outbound British convoy after we resupply. Then home by Christmas,”
Langsdorff said, smiling at the last remark.
Max turned to the captain. “Home by Christmas, Herr Kapitän, would be the best present we could have.”
“I’m certain all aboard agree with you, Maximilian, myself most of all.”
Langsdorff said nothing else, only stared into the darkness. Max scanned the instrument dials. He had little to do with the
captain exercising direct command on the bridge, especially with a crew so well trained as that of
Graf Spee
. The men knew their jobs and performed them with little prodding from the officers.
The last two hours of night were a vigil, weary and long, Max’s body constantly tensed against the motion of the ship. To
let go of the handrail was to be flung to the deck, which happened twice to one of the bridge messengers. Dawn broke, revealing
vast mountains of water heaving around them. Wind caught the wave tops and blew the spray against the ship, rattling the vessel
as if striking the hull with chains.
Graf Spee
would rise to the top of one gray-green mountain, then down, down, Max holding fast, till the ship buried her prow into the
sea, shipping water in a torrent to the foot of the bridge. Just when it seemed as if she might not rise again,
Spee
would drag herself out of the trough and climb to the top of
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