The Emporers Men Read online

  “Three-cylinder triple expansion engines, ten marine water-tube boilers with natural circulation,” pontificated Becker.

  Rheinberg raised his eyebrows and nodded. “You you’re your stuff, Captain.”

  “I should have become a naval officer. No, it is one of my principles to pursue the most optimal preparation, no matter what the mission is. Many of my comrades allow themselves to be too surprised by the things they should have expected. My good lieutenant didn’t even deemed it necessary to know where Cameroon actually is. He said he’ll see once we arrive at the port of Douala.”

  Rheinberg grinned. “No real port. There is a beautiful harbor, but with a long pier because it is too shallow for us to get close.”

  Becker nodded. “I have also told him. Then I sent him in seclusion for some hours, together with an atlas and a geography book about our colonies. I’ve made myself familiar with the cruiser even earlier. It’s just a magnificent piece of engineering. While what they are building today doesn’t have the curved bow or the decorations anymore – this still had a certain style and grace.”

  Rheinberg could not help but agree with the infantryman. The new vessels were significantly more functional than the old Saarbrücken. He was ready to confess that this increased functionality had its merits. During the last 11 years, the technical development had not stopped. The installation of Parsons turbines in the sister ship Lübeck two years after the Saarbrücken had been built, becoming the first ship in the fleet with the new technology, was a good example.

  Becker interrupted his thoughts. “How big is the crew?” They had reached the bow and stood directly above the rich ornaments.

  “287 NCOs and enlisted men, 18 officers,” Rheinberg replied promptly. “And recently, yet another 160 infantrymen.”

  Becker grinned. “We will make ourselves as small as possible, I promise.”

  Rheinberg made a generous gesture. “We will manage somehow. However, the ship is pretty overloaded, and therefore we’ll load less coal than usual. Our speed will be a leisurely pace, because our Lady could swallow over 10 tons of coal per hour in full speed. We will remain at half speed, which extends our trip but preserves our coal reserves. In Portugal, we will fill up, and then sail slowly to Cameroon. Expect some weeks of travel, as the journey will take time.”

  Becker sighed. “I suspect you will sweeten our time with some nice drills.”

  “Exactly. Every one of your men gets an assignment. You all need to know where you have to be in the event of something unexpected. And we will practice until they know it in their sleep.”

  “Great prospects.” Becker knocked on the rail. “But I am very confident that the old lady will deliver us to our goal.”

  “So am I,” Rheinberg said. He turned and enjoyed the view of the bridge where a pale von Klasewitz stood and stared at the two men. “That’s the second officer,” said Rheinberg, when he realized that Becker had noticed the stare. “Keep dear to the captain or me, or even better, if there is anything to ask for, talk to Chief Petty Officer Köhler. He has been on board for ten years and knows corners of whose existence I’m not aware. If something doesn’t work out, especially in regard to the relationship between your men and my crew, he is the contact person.”

  Becker nodded thoughtfully. “I have a sergeant, who should make friends with him …”

  Rheinberg was pleased that he was apparently going along very well with the captain. Again his eyes fell on the stiff figure of von Klasewitz who scrutinized them as if they were discussing the formation of a workers “and soldiers” council on the Saarbrücken. Rheinberg felt that Becker would “appreciate” this man just like him. This had perhaps something to do with the fact that the infantryman seemed to be a commoner like Rheinberg. That was a little bit rarer in the army than in the fleet. Becker, therefore, certainly did not always felt easy in the vicinity of highly respectable noble superiors like von Klasewitz.

  Rheinberg continued his tour of the ship. Becker proved to be an extremely attentive companion, as he soaked up every piece of information despite occasional jokes and lighthearted swipes at the fleet. At the end of their round they arrived at Rheinberg’s modest cabin. The commander made a sweeping motion.

  “Be my guest, sir. I will endeavor to do the night watch, so that you can sleep in peace. If needed, I will be sleeping in the bathtub. My boy provides fresh linens.”

  Becker nodded. His eyes fell on the only shelf in the room. It was so full of books that they probably wouldn’t slip even in the heaviest seas. He ran a finger over one spine and read the title aloud. “Edward Gibbon, ‘The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.’ ‘The Notitia Dignitatum’ in a new translation. Vegetius. Ambrosius … hm, you have a soft spot for Roman history, Lieutenant Commander.”

  Rheinberg smiled sheepishly. “Since my early youth. My dad has promoted this interest; he said I could learn a lot from it.”

  “Your father wanted you to be a professor of history?”

  Rheinberg’s smile carried a painful touch. “No, he was determined from the beginning that I would become a naval officer. But the history of the late Roman Empire is mostly military history. A fascinating topic, anyway. I have in my parents’ house a whole wall full of books. Only the most important works I’ve taken; I read them time and again.”

  Becker pulled with a little effort a thin book from the shelf. “Latin grammar. I’ll be damned, this is the grammar book from secondary school. It is certainly among the most hated books of my youth.”

  Rheinberg grinned almost boyishly. “Latin is my passion. I was top of the class until graduation. I take it that it wasn’t your favorite subject?”

  Becker frowned. “I was passable in Greek. Latin gave me a permanent headache. Who thinks up something like the ablative case?” He gently pushed the book back in its place. “I follow your passion for military history. We can learn much from the ancient generals.”

  Rheinberg nodded. “We can, but unfortunately we don’t do it often. Captain, I have to devote myself to other obligations …”

  Becker looked guilty. “I have stayed too long. I’ll return to my men, and we shall meet again, once I go on board with the troops. One thing, though: In one of my boxes are 25,000 Goldmark for the governor of Cameroon. We should stow that one away safely!”

  Rheinberg had almost forgotten the money. He tried not to show his disappointment about himself and acted as if he had expected this. “Of course,” he replied firmly. “The purser will take care of everything. The ship’s safe should be too small, but the Office of the Paymaster is doubly secured, and we will store the chest there. It is a safe place, and our Lieutenant Thies has already overseen large sums.”

  “Then everything is settled. I find my way back to the deck on my own; I have to learn that as soon as possible anyway.”

  “If anything is amiss, please contact me directly or Chief Petty Officer Köhler. With him, you are always in good hands.”

  The farewell was quick and courteous. Rheinberg rushed upstairs to personally provide for the immediate shipment of the gold. He was grateful for the reminder, even if not saying so.

  Rheinberg would definitely get along very well with the captain.

  2

  The Saarbrücken lurched.

  Autumn had gathered his forces on the day before the solemn departure and swept through the jetties and piers of Wilhelmshaven, so that even a day later, the marching band finally decided to succumb to the weather and left. The assembled visitors who had the endurance to bid the cruiser farewell waved goodbye to the ship while being totally disheveled by wind and rain. Normally, the departure of a ship was the reason for the so-called whooling – the crying, happy, sad, quiet, loud and uncontrollable ritual – with which the relatives, friends and brides dismissed the sailors on long voyages. This time the weather didn’t really mean well for all of them. As the boatswain whistles were sounded, the regret about the final farewell gave way quickly to the joyous expectation to return to a warm
and dry place. Rheinberg could clearly see from the bridge that the first had already begun to take up the way back to shelters as the Saarbrücken was only 20 meters away from the wharf. He didn’t blame anyone, not even the men of the infantry, who had preferred to stay in the cruiser’s interior. Their relatives, who were as a rule found in the vicinity of their home barracks further inside the empire, had already bid them farewell during another occasion.

  At the last possible moment, the infantrymen had taken delivery of a disassembled Benz 4-ton truck that had been hoisted aboard. Apparently the governor desperately needed a large vehicle in Cameroon and didn’t want to wait for a freighter. Köhler had cursed like a fishwife for hours and Rheinberg had allowed him to, because in the end the car parts were securely stowed in the most unlikely places on and below deck. Captain Becker had since been very, very kind to the old sergeant, something Rheinberg had noted with great joy. It was nice to meet officers every now and then who saw the men of lower rank as human beings.

  Wind speeds up to 8 knots and a rough sea was nothing that could embarrass the very stable and safely-built cruiser, but the ship was overweight and some of the men on board lacked any experience with the sea. Rheinberg harbored some concerns and asked perhaps more than necessary for the well-being of guests. As the Saarbrücken finally took a westerly course along the North Sea coast and fought bravely against the waves and the penetrating wind, Rheinberg, who was in command at that time, was really happy to see a healthy and quite agile Captain Becker entering the bridge. A signalman took off his heavy raincoat and put the wet scarf over the metal plate above the stove, which made the bridge a relatively pleasant place. The temperature outside wasn’t freezing, but the biting wind and the incessant rain – sometimes as showers, sometimes as a wet foam – increased the chill.

  “Volkert, give the captain a cup of coffee,” was Rheinberg’s first command. Midshipman Thomas Volkert was on his first long journey with this ship and had so far proven himself as quite capable. The young officer looked lanky, sometimes had too pale of a face and was still working hard to develop the necessary authority. Rheinberg had decided to place the man under his personal care, in order to avoid the danger of falling too much under von Klasewitz’s bad influence. The young guy had it rough enough, since after a very long evening in the officers mess it slipped out of him that he still was a virgin, which had of course spread among the crew. Von Klasewitz especially found it very funny to rub the ensign’s nose before the assembled troops. Volkert was more of a shy type, and he struggled to handle this properly. Rheinberg was not sure why someone like him had ever gone to the fleet, but the ensign showed some profound knowledge about the navigation techniques and a knack for the mechanics of the ship. All this had to be encouraged without the impression that he was under the special protection of the ship’s officers, but that impression would surely not materialize, so long as von Klasewitz acted like he did.

  Becker, clutching the steaming metal cup with both hands, placed himself next to Rheinberg, who himself stood next to the quartermaster behind the large windows of the bridge and looked at the gray-blue waves with a critical eye.

  “Your men and yourself are doing well, Captain?”

  Becker nodded and took a sip. “I’m fine. Just wish I could say that about all my men. Your ship’s doctor does his second round today, and the number of green faces has not diminished.”

  “It takes time. And we have time. The wind is strong, although not as strong as in the beginning. Strength 6 this morning. But we have to fight against him and can’t achieve more than 10 knots without increased coal consumption.”

  “We don’t want to go faster anyway in order to save coal,” said Becker.

  Rheinberg nodded. “But in order to keep the speed, we need to force the machines, because we fight the wind. That costs us extra. Here, see for yourself …”

  Rheinberg led the infantryman to the card table. In addition to his current appointment as executive officer, he was the navigation officer of the cruiser, and no one knew the charts as well as himself and von Krautz. A chart was spread on the table, showing the whole western part of Europe. The fine lines of the planned course of the Saarbrücken registered clearly.

  “We may keep close to the coast,” Rheinberg said, “but we won’t be able to get coal again soon. I mustn’t tell you how fragile the political situation has become. The station chief himself spoke of war on the horizon. I don’t want to be in a potentially hostile port when the lid flies off. So we avoid Belgium and France and make a stopover in Portugal. What we hear from there is also not really encouraging, but they will give us coal.”

  “That’s far. How far exactly?”

  “A little more than 2,400 NM,” explained Rheinberg and immediately saw the slight confusion in the eyes of the captain. He calculated in his head. “Around 4,500 kilometers.”

  Becker smiled gratefully and bowed his head. “I’m still learning, Lieutenant Commander.”

  Becker and Rheinberg spoke very friendly to each other and without any formalities, but here, in the presence of subordinates, such behavior was inappropriate. Nevertheless, both the mate as well as the signalman noticed the relaxed atmosphere among the two officers and grinned widely at their jokes without fear of reprimand.

  “How long will it take us with ten knots average speed?” persisted Becker.

  “We expect to make it in eleven days if nothing worse happens in regard with the weather. We will not stay in Portugal for long; we take coal and water, and off we go to Cameroon. The whole coastline of the West Africa station is British and French, except for Togoland. We should therefore strive to steam as directly as possible to Douala.”

  Becker nodded. “So there will enough time then for my men to gain sea legs.”

  Rheinberg looked down at the man. “You seem to have them already.”

  “One never forgets. But I’ll keep to myself how I felt during my first long voyage.”

  “Oh, no, please share that with me!” Rheinberg said with a grin, then he turned back to look over the bow of the Saarbrücken, the spray splashing as they broke through a new, powerful wave. After a critical look at the gray overcast sky he shook his head. “This will be a long night,” he muttered to himself.

  “You’ll have late watch?”

  “Yes, so you can get some sleep. I’ll have some rest in the afternoon – and otherwise the coffee will help.”

  Becker raised his now empty cup. “This one wakes the dead.”

  “Which is very helpful on a warship,” smiled Rheinberg.

  The captain set down the cup and took another look at the raging sea. He stood upright as a wave crashed on the bow which made the ship lurch mightily. The deafening sound of the steaming masses of water pressing on the little bridge made all conversation impossible for a moment. Then the cruiser had fought free. Rheinberg threw again a critical look toward the sky. A bright crack had formed in the dense, deep black clouds, and it seemed to expand.

  “We’re lucky,” the first officer said loudly as he could make himself understandable to some extent. “The weather seems to have calmed a bit.”

  Another twenty minutes passed before the storm subsided and the wind decreased markedly. The first sailors showed themselves on deck, where the cargo covered with tarpaulins and lashed items were examined for completeness and integrity. The noise level fell significantly. Rheinberg now seemed relaxed and threw the helmsman an approving glance.

  “Decent work, Hansen!”

  “Thank you, Commander!”

  Becker tapped Rheinberg on the shoulder. “Thanks for the coffee. I’ll go below deck and look after my men. They’ll be glad as the rocking has subsided somewhat. Where are we now? The men will be asking.”

  “Longitude and latitude?”

  “I’d like something a little bit more illustrative.”

  Rheinberg turned to the charts again, and after only a brief orientation he pointed with his index finger on one particular area. �
��North of Ameland, in Dutch waters. When we have a clearer view, one can see for himself. But if you’re looking to port …”

  Becker followed the now outstretched arm of Rheinberg and squinted. In the still relatively high waves, he barely could make out a strip of land in the distance.

  “Ameland?”

  “Yes.”

  “That is enough for me, if someone asks. I’ll leave now.”

  Rheinberg tapped with his right hand to his cap.

  “You are always welcome back, sir.”

  * * *

  Rheinberg could not help himself, but during the journey through the Channel and along the French coast, he never ceased to be restless. During his readiness watch and even outside the actual duty time, he caught himself unable to relax and had to roam restlessly across the deck. The crew quickly got used to it, and the division chiefs soon realized that it wasn’t the intention of the first officer to conduct unannounced inspections. He was greeted, but Rheinberg’s absent facial expression made it clear that he was not interested in listening to status reports. For several minutes, he stood at the rail, armed with binoculars, while the Saarbrücken struggled through the rough seas of the channel, and he watched carefully, as the coast of France appeared in the misty spray. His father had taught him two things from which he couldn’t or wouldn’t dissociate himself completely: the traditional enmity with France on the one hand and respect for the courage of French soldiers on the other. As a cavalry officer and a young man, the older Rheinberg had fought in the Franco-German war and shared in the euphoric victory over the old enemy, a victory that brought the Empire reputation, land and financial resources. France as an enemy has always been one of the fixed and inevitable pillars of self-esteem, and Rheinberg had to learn that in his training, too. Deep inside him, something struggled against this setting, a quiet, nagging doubt, an unspoken question, and he found himself in an amazing harmony with his unpopular brother-in-law, Karl, who spoke of the chance to overcome the hostility to France by the “unity of the working class.” Although Jan didn’t care for Karl’s socialist rhetoric, the idea of reconciliation with France had a certain attractiveness. The descriptions of his father, who had always expressed respect for the fighting courage of his enemies, may have contributed to it. Why should men who fought with equal vigor and dedication for their respective homelands automatically be his enemies? They seemed to have more in common than they wanted to otherwise admit, and this made Rheinberg think.