The Emporers Men Read online

  He would never have dared to express it openly, not even to Karl. And he felt the impact of decades of indoctrination as he nervously watched the French coast in anxious expectation, not least bearing in mind the worsening political situation on the continent. War was in the air, and this war would drive Germany and France against each other again, of that there was no doubt. Rheinberg believed that the German Empire would again prevail in this struggle, which was as expected as the Amen in church.

  He and his ship might become involved right from the start. Most of West Africa consisted of French possessions, interspersed with some British colonies. The German colonies were in a difficult strategic position. Togo as a small colony was a narrow strip of land sandwiched between the French and British territories, and Cameroon, although of greater length, was surrounded by potential enemies. The borders had been amicably agreed to in 1884 at the Berlin Conference, chaired by Chancellor Bismarck, yet it was clear that in case of war all this would be quickly called into question. Africa would be a theater of war, and the German troop presence was small, one of the reasons that the Saarbrücken carried a company of soldiers with her, despite the fact that an additional company would ultimately make no difference. The cruiser, however, could accomplish something as a raider to disturb supply lines, but here Rheinberg’s realism won over his confidence: His ship was old and slow, and he knew about the new French and British cruisers. The Germany Navy had better and newer ships, which didn’t help the good old Saarbrücken, and the conversion to the new guns made since was only a marginal difference. The light cruiser was armored relatively weak and ammunition was limited; it wasn’t a ship of the line and had not been built for a long battle. If cornered, they would either wait in a neutral port for German victory or sink the ship and go into captivity. Rheinberg would prefer to be able to break through back to Germany to avoid this rather shameful fate. Ultimately, this was a decision that would be made by von Krautz.

  Rheinberg didn’t envy him.

  After leaving the English Channel, he relaxed a bit. On the faces of the other men he saw the same feeling. Only von Klasewitz had pretended as if he didn’t care at all. No one took this seriously, not even the captain, and the second officer was smart enough not to exaggerate. The Saarbrücken won the open sea and was free from the French coast, which longer was visible, and the illusion of freedom relaxed Rheinberg to an extent that he was soon back to his normal routine.

  The days passed, and the two groups of men on board got used to one another. The congested and difficult conditions made frictions inevitable, and Rheinberg and Becker therefore developed a drill to disturb the normal routine on board and to make sure that everyone was always busy. During free times, everyone usually fell tired into their hammocks soonly during meals remained an opportunity to share animosity. In addition, Chief Petty Officer Köhler had become friends with Sergeant Behrens, and many problematic issues that would otherwise have drawn the attention of the officers were resolved at that level. Rheinberg and Becker were both aware of this and happy with it as long as the veteran NCOs had the situation under control, and they obviously had.

  On the evening of the tenth day, about fourteen hours before their scheduled arrival in Portugal, Captain von Krautz held a staffdinner in the wardroom. Except for those on duty – the third officer First Lieutenant Joergensen, and two division chiefs – all the remaining 15 officers of the Saarbrücken were present, as well as Captain Becker and his deputy, Lieutenant Roger von Geeren. The new lord of the machines, Marine Chief Engineer Johann Dahms, joined them also. Rheinberg had not yet had a chance to sit in peace to talk to Dahms, for his night shifts had meant that the engineer was asleep when Rheinberg was active. Rheinberg knew Dahms’ deputy pretty well, though, and had talked to him briefly about the new boss, and it appeared that Dahms knew his job in the engine room and ruled with a steady hand. The duty below deck was murderous, the heat often nearly unbearable, and the shifts like hell. The mechanics were a close-knit community, if their superior officer succeeded in forging them into a team. That was not easy because crewmen there had in the past shown to be particularly vulnerable to social democratic infiltration. Dahms, however, seemed to be aware of his responsibility.

  The officers’ mess wasn’t a big room, and was dominated by the dining table. Residing at the head, von Krautz quietly conversed with Dahms, as Rheinberg finally walked into the room and started to salute. One glance was already enough to make it clear that the captain didn’t put too much value on formalities that night and by waving he asked Rheinberg to simply take a seat and to wait for the steward to serve the food. There was fish, potatoes and white wine, nothing special, but as always of good quality. After the captain had offered the toast to the Emperor and all raised their glasses, everyone started eating, and a conversation began to sway back and forth.

  “I think that there can be no doubt,” Rheinberg heard the slightly arrogant voice of von Klasewitz while still shoveling a fork of boiled potatoes into his mouth.

  The general attention was directed to the second officer, not so much because the man had said something, but more because Captain Becker stared at his plate with a reddened face and chewed with very mechanical movements. Rheinberg knew Becker well enough by now to realize that he fought for his composure and was obviously angry. Klasewitz didn’t seem to notice or he didn’t care. He continued undaunted, and it quickly became clear why Becker preferred to grind on the fish instead of saying something.

  “Our Majesty has said on several occasions, and in no uncertain terms, that the Navy is enjoying the highest favor and appreciation and remains preferable to the other parts of the armed forces,” von Klasewitz continued. “Yes, it is of particular importance for the Emperor to expect the greatest and most excellent progress of the navy and its officers.”

  Klasewitz spoke like a communique, and he did so with a degree of complacency that wasn’t received well by everyone. Rheinberg felt with Becker. Of course the second officer wasn’t totally wrong; Emperor Wilhelm II was known to give the navy his fullest attention and to a far greater extent than to other military branches. But for someone like von Klasewitz, this seemed to become something like a hierarchy defined by natural law and to emphasize this in the presence of an army officer was more than just rude – it was close to insulting.

  Rheinberg restrained himself. He looked up and his eyes met those of Dahms staring at von Klasewitz with visible disgust. Rheinberg knew that the naval engineers were almost all from the middle classes without any nobility, and this special blend of arrogance and bonhomie with which the noble naval officers sometimes despised the “lower” class of officer attracted very little sympathy among them. Dahms looked just as pissed as Becker, but both were silent, for it was not up to them to respond.

  Von Krautz cleared his throat. “Klasewitz, we are all aware of the special grace of Her Majesty, but I think that we as professional officers know all very well that every victory depends on the fact that it is equally won at sea as on land. It would be shortsighted to deny this, and the mere fact that we were ordered to bring the captain and his men to Cameroon shows us that they have to accomplish something there that this cruiser cannot.”

  The tone of the captain had been blaming, albeit quietly, but with a distinct undertone. Von Klasewitz seemed unimpressed.

  “Negro control, holding wild natives in check. Maybe for this task a man of the army is necessary, but nothing of real significance.” He grunted disapprovingly.

  “What is significant in your view?” asked Neumann. The ship’s doctor didn’t seem to be overly impressed either.

  Von Klasewitz looked at him as if he had asked the stupidest question since the beginning of human history. He sighed and replied in a tone as if speaking to a naughty child. “Doctor, that should be self-explanatory. Fly the German flag on the oceans, and in case of war to clear the water from our enemies, and thus to provide wealth to the Empire as a global naval power – this is likely to be much more
important than to patrol villages of Negroes.”

  “Indeed,” muttered Neumann. “And for what purpose do we control the waters exactly?”

  “What a question! For glory and power …”

  “This means that we have acquired the colonies in order to increase power and glory?” persisted Neumann.

  “Certainly!”

  “Not because of the raw materials or due to strategic considerations?”

  Von Klasewitz made a face as if he had bitten into a sour apple. “Well, yes, well …”

  “And what will happen to our so magnificently protected sea lanes if the colonies do not produce goods that would be transported on such routes?”

  “I think …”

  “And what happens if the colonial troops were not doing their job? Do you think that the Africans actually are full of happiness and enthusiasm in regard to the foreign domination of the German Emperor? Maybe they might rather come to the conclusion that it would be better to establish their own government.”

  Von Klasewitz laughed. “Government? They are savages! There never was any government in Africa worthy of the name!”

  Neumann frowned. “The reports of German researchers have been talking a different language. May I remind you of the Congo kingdom, well researched by our scientists? In any case, it is clear and undeniable that without the presence of the army in the colonies, our duty at sea would be pointless since there would be nothing to protect.”

  “So it is!” agreed von Krautz and threw Klasewitz of a warning look. Slowly the second officer began to realize that he was fighting a losing battle. With a red face and without even thinking about such a thing as an excuse to Becker, he devoted himself to his plate. The infantry captain had calmed visibly, but in Dahms’ face there was still a deep, unrelenting disgust.

  Rheinberg made a mental note to keep an eye on that.

  The conversation died down and then turned to other things, much less suitable to raising a dispute. Finally, after the meal, Becker, Neumann and Rheinberg assembled half an hour later on the front deck, again near the bow. The sea was calm and the evening air cool, but not too chilly. All three men puffed on cigars from the storage of the captain, which he had liberally distributed. For a few minutes, the three officers gazed at the starry night, each occupied with his own thoughts.

  Becker cleared his throat. “I want to thank you, Doctor.”

  “Hans?”

  Becker smiled. “Jonas.” He offered Neumann his hand which he casually grabbed and shook.

  “There is nothing to thank me for,” the doctor said. “Men like von Klasewitz are a problem for the whole fleet. They believe themselves to be the most precious of them all; they flay the crew and think NCOs are their personal slaves, look down on the Marine Engineers, and think their origin alone would give them every right to trample on others. Klasewitz is a classic example of the civil failures that have unfortunately spread among the fleet because of our Most High Majesty’s opinion that the nobility should have precedence in holding the posts of officers and this therefore gives them preference in recruitment. Tirpitz is signing on to this without prompting.”

  “Tirpitz has his strengths and weaknesses,” said Rheinberg, inhaling the pleasant smell of his cigar. “His weaknesses include that he thinks it is good to cement the cleavages within the officer’s corps. Men like Dahms have received a longer and harder training than I did, and yet certain privileges are denied to him and his comrades. What a struggle it was until the Navy engineers had been allowed to carry a sword! That is silly.”

  Neumann nodded silently. Becker declined to comment on the delicate mechanisms of navy politics.

  “When it comes to war, Jonas, how do you rate the chances of your men?” Rheinberg asked.

  Becker’s immediate reaction was a sigh. “Bad. Not against the natives, although I’m absolutely of the opinion that they would take the opportunity to rise against us, if it offers itself. I remember the Herero uprising in the Southwest. That was a nasty affair. A massacre. I will honestly say that I never understood what brought us to that place under the sun. That’s a waste of money. Colonies will sooner or later become a burden to everyone.”

  Becker stood on thin ice, and he knew that political discussions among the officers were not welcome. But a quick look at the faces of Rheinberg and Neumann showed him they understood his complaints very well.

  “But to answer your question,” he continued, “the French and the British colonial troops are plentiful and have the strategic advantage. Our colonies are scattered across the continent. If it comes to war, we will lose Africa at least initially, there is no doubt, and permanently so, if we lose in Europe as well.”

  Again only confirming glances. Neumann and Rheinberg shared this assessment. A war would be disastrous for Becker as an individual just as for the crew of the Saarbrücken: imprisonment or death. And unlike the cruiser, Becker had not even the distant hope of being able to break through and flee to home. Someone like von Klasewitz wouldn’t consider this.

  “We pick you up once the war is over,” Rheinberg said and put a hand on Becker’s shoulder. “Just try not to get captured by the French.”

  “I’ll do my best,” replied the soldier casually, but in his voice was a silent sorrow and the doubt that this would be enough.

  The three men exchanged no further words, waited until the cigars were smoldering stumps, which afterwards flew in a high arc into the sea. Portugal was before them, and then Douala.

  3

  “That’s a little strange,” muttered Becker, trying not to appear too anxious. Seeking help, he glanced at Rheinberg and von Krautz, who stood beside him on the bridge. Both had their eyes armed with binoculars and looked intently at the horizon. Quartermaster Börnsen seemed as confused as Becker, and as their eyes met, the man shrugged. If even the experienced helmsman who had sailed the seas of the world seemed irritated, Becker could hardly be blamed for not understanding.

  It had begun in the early morning when the Saarbrücken had gotten into a fog bank of impressive density. The proverbial “cannot see the hand in front of your eyes” had materialized in a way Becker has not encountered before. Everyone’s visual perspective didn’t reach further than a few meters; each crewmember walked on the decks like a blind man, and an unnatural, disturbing silence had fallen over the cruiser. Von Krautz had ordered quarter speed and both the foghorn as well as the ship’s bell announced the existence of the ship as it slowly sailed toward the Portuguese coast. Becker saw it on the faces of the two naval officers that even for them the murderously thick fog was a rather rare experience. As the sun had risen fully – discerned through the appearance of general brightness because the sun itself was not even recognizable as a diffuse luminous body – it fortunately didn’t take long before the Saarbrücken finally left the fog and ventured on a completely calm and silent surface in bright sunshine cruising under a blue sky. The outside temperature suddenly jumped within ten minutes from very moderate to quite warm, the sky was cloudless, and the division chiefs had to allow the men to take off coats and jackets, as all were quickly sweating.

  Yet, the coast could not be seen. Although once the fog had lifted von Krautz commanded the ship to accelerate to half speed and the muffled vibration of the powerful expansion engines shook the whole ship, nothing of the coastline was even remotely visible. That was also the reason why Rheinberg and the captain continuously kept their binoculars on their eyes while the Saarbrücken moved forward with a gentle bow wave, itself absolutely undisturbed by any movement of the surface. The cruiser was on course, there was no doubt. The sea hadn’t been too bad during the last few days; a little gusty wind had prevailed, all in all acceptable weather conditions. Nothing had happened to the cruiser that would have veered it massively off course.

  And yet, and yet …

  Becker’s discomfort arose not because of his lack of confidence in the navigational abilities of his comrades – he estimated that, as far as he could tell,
Rheinberg and von Krautz were experienced sailors who knew their craft – but from the insecurity and lack of understanding on the faces of all those experienced men. He knew even less about what was going on, and they seemed to offer nothing more substantial than speculation.

  “A second bank of fog ahead,” Rheinberg reported.

  The captain lowered his glass and nodded. Becker squinted and stared in the direction indicated. Rheinberg had observed the situation correctly, and even with the naked eye the infantryman could make out a fine, whitish line of haze that was rapidly growing.

  “Slowspeed,” the first officer ordered, and the order was repeated and executed. The vibration of the machine diminished and the forward movement of the Saarbrücken became immediately slower.

  “Very strange,” Rheinberg whispered and set the binoculars down. The approaching fog bank was clearly visible, and it didn’t touch the water, as the bright sunlight still reflected on the quiet surface. But increasingly, the visibility became more and more restricted.

  “The fog horn every 30 seconds,” commanded von Krautz. “We have to abide to our course, otherwise we will never get out of this … situation.” Silent approval on the bridge, and then, as the cruiser slid again into the mist, every utterance from the mouths of the soldiers sounded like their heads were wrapped in cotton wool. A strange pressure weighed on Becker’s head, and he instinctively shook it as if he could get rid of the feeling that way. But the deeper the Saarbrücken drove into the fog bank, the more burdensome was the feeling. A glance around confirmed that he was not alone in this. Slowly the pressure grew into real distress. Börnsen uttered a low cry of pain and suddenly clung to the helm, Becker’s head started to feel like exploding, and he began to wobble, stumbling directly on the mate’s falling body. Rheinberg’s last clear thought was that more was at work than just the fog.