Free Rogue Raider by Nigel Barley Page A

screws, so that all the world was one great visceral maelstrom moving to the same rhythm. The lifeboats had been filled with water. Everyone had been ordered to take a freshwater shower and change into clean underwear. To sailors that meant they were going into a battle where wounds were expected. Numbers Two, Three and Four disappeared under an avalanche of washing.
    The lights of Madras blazed immoderately, not from bravado but sheer stupidity. The harbour was strung with bulbs and illuminated beacons guided the raider conveniently into the main channel where the waterfront welcomed them with fat open arms. Lauterbach alone was worried about the sudden crackling sheet lightning that lit them from behind but all these excited boys had their eyes fixed firmly in front. They would make a good target as they sailed away – if they sailed away. This was, after all, a defended harbour.
    â€œThe guns will be big but old, nothing but museum specimens that fire a shell the size of a dustbin,” so von Muecke at the briefing, thinking he was being encouraging. Lauterbach found he had a particular dislike of being hit by a flying dustbin full of explosive. At 3,000 yards they stopped dead, a big easy target, and switched on their huge searchlights, probing the hillside for their goal, the great oil tanks of the Burmah Oil Company, painted an obliging shade of white. Von Mueller had done careful homework with his charts and maps. It seemed like an age before they began to move again. If he lined up his vessel with the six bulging tanks and the flashing navigation lights, he would have the biggest possible target with the smallest risk to local civilians. They brought all the starboard guns to bear and fired off twenty-five crisp salvoes. The noise was like thunder. A tank was hit. Blazing kerosene exploded and gushed as from a volcano, starting other fires, while rockets of burning carburant shot into the sky and flame and thick black smoke danced over the hillside. Lauterbach raised his fine new British binoculars and stared at the city in disbelief. This was a new wonder. Instead of fleeing, excited sightseers – Indian and British – were hurrying down to the harbour to watch openmouthed, clogging the roads with cars, bicycles and rickshaws, blocking the fire-engines and the troops running around like headless chickens. The whole event had become a carnival. After ten minutes, the Emden coolly ceased fire and steamed off to the north east.
    â€œIn sea engagements,” von Muecke had pointed out when putting his men through their paces at swimming, “nine tenths of the casualties are from the sea, not the guns. No one would get killed, if sea battles were fought in the harbour or on dry land.”
    â€œFor that to happen we would have to have Lauterbach navigating, Number One.”
    Well, they were still in harbour and death was still on offer. The defences were finally brought to bear. Nine shots were returned. Lauterbach counted them all. None of the British shells hit anything. There were no casualties. In a later paper they would discover that most of the guns were unmanned as the British were at a special dinner celebrating yesterday’s hot news – the sinking of that German cruiser, Emden , confidently announced on the wireless. The attack on Madras had been intended to demoralise the Indian population. Instead they laughed. They laughed at the British. Insurance rates on the London Market went through the roof.
    They rendezvoused with the Markomannia and headed south towards Ceylon over smooth seas. For most of the day, the pall of smoke on the horizon was visible as the oil of Madras continued to burn. The whole ship was still crackling with excitement and exultation. The crew spoke in grins. When you brushed against them, they tingled with electricity and when von Mueller appeared, unsmiling, from the bridge they cheered like British prisoners. Tars liked, Lauterbach realised, to be sent