Free Rogue Raider by Nigel Barley

fatal lips. It was the first shot he had fired in the war – they the first casualties of the campaign. Barely had their boat cleared the ship, when the charges went off and blew a huge steel plate clanging over their heads. By the time they made it back to the Emden , the Clan Matheson was already taking its proud cargo swirling to the bottom.
    Von Muecke showed an unexpected gift for stand-up comedy. A ship at sea is a closed, incestuous community, a sweating mobile factory of love, hate and rumour. Newspapers from captive vessels were sent straight to the bridge as a useful resource. But there was a fear also that access to the propaganda put about by the enemy, for the consumption of their Indian subjects, might unsettle the men. Von Muecke knew that the wildest tales were circulating. It was time to sink them with a few well-placed charges.
    He adopted the tactic of reading to the men totally contradictory accounts of the same events from different papers and the more deadly serious he was, the funnier it became. He read out descriptions of their own sinking and imaginary exploits that placed them firmly anywhere from Rangoon to Australia. He reduced them to tears of laughter with stories of simultaneous naval battles with the rest of their squadron in parts of the world they had never even visited. He totted up the casualty figures on the European front and proved that twice the population of Germany had allegedly perished there already. Best of all was a composite picture of British plans for the Reich after their victory. It was a vision of home with the Reich collapsed, penitent generals shooting themselves by battalions and the complete colonial dismemberment of Germany with Bavaria independent and only Thuringia being left intact. The Thuringian stokers rose spontaneously and stalked and pranced up and down arrogantly, as the only true Germans, before these contemptible new foreigners.
    They steamed across the Madras-Rangoon and Singapore-Calcutta shipping lanes, horribly aware of the lingering smoke they were making from the foul Indian fuel. The crew were in fine form. Lauterbach had saved them most of the horrors of a recent coaling by secretly hiring the Indian crew of their latest prize to do it for them. Ships of all nations were run on imperial lines, white officers at the top, Chinese stewards between and, in the engine-room below, toiling brown helots. The money had come from a magical inventory of the safes of prize vessels that converted gain into loss and loss into gain by an act of twinkling numerical prestidigitation learnt from doing company accounts. He called it “tickling the kitty.”
    â€œRather noble of those Lascars to volunteer for such a job,” commented von Muecke. “Just shows what could be done to the British Empire with a few home truths. After just a few days with us they already love Germany. After the war, we shall take charge of India and rule it with a firmness they will appreciate.”
    The slow Pontoporos was sent off to a distant rendezvous, like an irritating granny with a gammy leg. A passing Norwegian disembarrassed them of prisoners – again three cheers – and obligingly gave details of the movements of enemy warships about the island of Penang. Von Mueller carefully stored that information away. Anyway, sloppy British security and uncoded radio traffic allowed them to keep easy track of their pursuers and so avoid them. Von Mueller took clean, hard coal aboard from the Markomannia and sent her too off to a rendezvous. For the moment the captain exulted in his restored freedom of motion for he had another bold scheme he was itching to realise.
    The Emden started in from the east, sailing into darkness, straining to her full speed of 24 knots with her fake fourth funnel in place. The sea was like a mirror. It parted in glossy marcelled waves on either side of the bow while the men’s heartbeats accelerated to match the pitch of her thrusting