Three Kings

Somehow, he worked his way behind the rock, straining and squirming to get through a crevice so narrow that his head and shoulders could barely fit through. But he could smell fresh air there, a cool draft that had to be coming from some place, so he continued to squirm until he had managed to squeeze on through.

In that last week before the final surrender, he resolved that he would not be marched off to some German prison camp in Spain. Life might be better there than what he now contemplated, but comfort was one thing, a man’s pride and character quite another. The recollection of that young Lieutenant in the Artillery Corps that had taken up a rifle as the final retreat began was still with him. He remembered how the lad had thrown himself on that grenade, making the final sacrifice to save his comrades in arms.

“And here we are about to hand the Rock over to Jerry,” he muttered bitterly. “Some murderous German General holds up a match book and that’s the end of it. Well, not for me.”

In those last days he went about rounding up much needed supplies. If six other men would stay behind, so would he. One by one, he forced the small supply packs through the crevice, and then he finally squeezed through himself.

He took out a matchbook, shaking his head as he did so. “The Germans think they’ve taken the Rock with a single match,” he said aloud. “Well this one says we haven’t given up yet, not while there’s still one Barbary ape here on the rock, just as legend has it. By God there’s one down here somewhere, and I’m going to find it!”

He used the match to light his oil lamp, watching as it illuminated the strange shapes of the carved walls of the cave. “Now then,” he said, standing up in the dark, grateful that there was at least enough head room in his cave to allow for that. “Where have you gone, my young little weasel of an ape?”

Chapter 2

The cold light of the waning gibbous moon fell on other ships that night, as they surged through the rising seas like steel shadows. They were running full out, engines straining, the water high on the sharp bows as they pushed ahead. Bismarck was in the van, its dark shape illuminated in the cold pale moonlight, a grim silent presence on the sea. Behind it came an even greater mass, the looming hulk of the Hindenburg as it followed the wide frothing wake of the other ship. Kapitan Adler was on the bridge, fretting and restless that night, and ever mindful of the third shadow on the sea, well behind them yet still there, doggedly following their every move. He could not see it now in the darkness, but he could feel it, the threatening presence of another enemy battleship on the seas behind them.

Adler was still steaming with the thought that they should have turned and fought this ship the moment it first appeared on the distant horizon. But Lutjens had turned away, and he had received a stiff rebuke when he made an unwise comment intimating that the Admiral seemed to have no stomach for battle. It still bothered him as he felt that presence behind them, and he stepped out onto the weather bridge to have a look through his field glasses.

The night was cold and wet, a light mist on the air that was more than the spray from Hindenburg’s bow. Rain was coming. He had checked with the weather man and knew the pressure was falling. So they would have a storm to shroud their massive steel shoulders soon, and thickening clouds overhead. That would keep the Goeben’s planes on the deck for the foreseeable future, so he could not count on the Stukas driving off this meddlesome British battleship. But here he had the most advanced ship in the German Navy under his feet, its power and mass so evident as it plowed the seas-and they were running!

He shook his head, wishing he could make a sudden turn and rip open the night with those terrible 16-inch guns. That was how he would have handled the matter, but Lutjens had been adamant. They had their feast. Convoy HX-69 paid the terrible price for the meal in ships lost and blood and fire on the sea. Then, at the height of their feeding frenzy, the Royal Navy had appeared, a battleship challenging them off the starboard bow, and the Admiral had turned away, leaving the wrecked convoy behind, along with the prospect of a good battle that Adler knew they would have won if the Admiral had found his backbone. Bismarck took the lead and he had followed, reluctantly, still stinging from the threat leveled at him by Lutjens.