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those were not great odds. But he would not mention Japan. These happy boys would not want to hear it and would hold it against him as a mark of his negative thought and lack of team spirit.
    â€œWhat about Japan?” he asked. The words fell into a deep, deep silence, like a depth charge tumbling in still blue water after the initial splash. Von Muecke wheeled round, sneered briefly and opened his mouth to speak. Before he could do so he was flung to one side and his pointer sent clattering as the Emden veered hard over to starboard. Lauterbach hardly had time to feel the pleasure of Number One’s discomfort before the rising revolutions and an abrupt thrumming through the steel deck gave sign that the ship was running at full speed. “Action stations” rang out and the audience disappeared in a thunder of feet that reminded him of boys stampeding at the sound of the bell that marked the end of the school day. Lauterbach – Lieutenant Lauterbach – rose to follow at a more measured pace. This was the navy so there were rules of course. Everyone’s precise status was defined by the rings on his sleeve and precedence and rights of way up and down ladders and corridors were clearly marked in the handbook. Lauterbach’s bulk made such rules redundant for he filled every stairway and gangway and moved like a whale through the ocean, leaving smaller fish to avoid him as best they could. Younger men hitched their elbows into the rails and coolly slid down ladders, leaning back and without touching the treads with their feet. Lauterbach plodded down step by step. Ladders were dangerous. You could hurt yourself. He had seen it happen loads of times.
    As acting navigation officer his place was on the bridge and he moved solidly along the passageways and upwards to glowworm illumination. The nighttime waves were rough and heavy and the decks were awash. Rain squalls lashed his eyes, reducing vision still further. An eerie phosphorescence glowed from the sea and the prow was rhythmically dipped in running gold sending long dark shadows ghosting through the water. The men would be up, panicking, spotting non-existent submarines all night. As he struggled along the open deck and up the ladder, the wind plucked nastily at his tunic so that he gathered it around him. Important not to catch a chill. He knew they were in the Straits of Tsushima, between Korea and Japan. Japanese ships they could not yet touch. Russian they could and would seize. He passed through the door and saluted.
    â€œLieutenant Lauterbach on the bridge, sir.” Von Muecke was there before him, saying, “I think it’s a Russian, sir, the Askold. ” The Askold would outgun them, blow them to pieces. Bloody hell. Pangs stabbed through his stomach. The captain turned slightly and smiled a superior smile. It was not the Askold then.
    â€œMr Lauterbach, yes. Take a look, please. The Russian heavy cruiser Askold? ” The voice was hushed, little more than a paper-thin whisper. Von Mueller was the most ethereal captain he had ever met. “ Mr ” Lauterbach? They had been at naval college together but, even then, von Mueller exuded aristocratic Prussian austerity, played no team games, rode alone or performed cool gymnastic exercises in unsweating geometric isolation. His tall gaunt form was shrouded in a long, shapeless overcoat, so that his feet were invisible and he seemed to float. His face was that of an honest preacher. The granitic features emerged pale and haggard and his fingers, as he passed the binoculars, were cold and unfleshed. Lauterbach shivered.to their touch.
    He peered through the rain-blurred glass and at first could see only sea and sky, then between gusts of rain caught a sudden glimpse of something else. There was colour out there. Straining his eyes, he could just make out an all-black steamer with twin yellow funnels running fast without lights. Thank God, a civilian.
    â€œRussian Volunteer