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sweat gushed copiously from crotch and armpit. For Julius Lauterbach the war had just begun.

Chapter Two
    Pagan and the other islands of the Northern Marianas had been bought from Spain in 1899 as a particularly extravagant act of impulse shopping. The natives, of course, had not been consulted in the matter and found the overnight change from Spanish to German disconcerting. Language was like a sink plug that suddenly did not fit any more. Magellan, on his voyage around the world, had given them the irksome name of the Island of Thieves but their principal importance lay now in being the Island of Coal. The entire coal-hungry German Pacific Squadron had gathered to feed in the sheltered bay beneath the volcano that, secure in its own fuel, smoked above them in peaceful parody. Admiral Graf von Spee had surrounded himself with the star vessels Sharnhorst, Gneisenau and Nuernburg with a complete supporting cast of attendant colliers and auxiliaries. In the admiral’s presence, von Mueller had become still more ethereal, disdaining normal meals, spending long hours alone in his cabin doing one knew not what. Sometimes his ghostly voice would whisper through the speaking-tubes calling for a map or a book or soup and rolls. In Pagan he finally became fully invisible. It was rumoured he had been whisked away in the early pre-dawn for endless strategic conferences aboard the flagship. Fearful of British naval dominance in the Indian Ocean and the China Sea, Graf Spee had determined to take his fleet on the long voyage to the West coast of the Americas. All were coaling in preparation.
    Von Muecke had always had an odd obsession with making the men swim to improve fitness. In the filth of the port it had been compulsory. He could be seen and heard shouting instructions through a megaphone as they wallowed and gulped in bilge and sewage. With the logic that dogs all navies, bathing was now forbidden in these smooth and limpid waters. The previous night Berlin had radioed through the promotion of the officers’ class of 1911, which had led to a major bout of sewing and some minor celebration of the new badges of rank. Many men were the worse for wear, red-eyed and green-skinned but the sea was allowed to bring no relief. The ratings stared glumly down into the flawless blue depths and sweated as they waited their turn to coal. “Sir, sir. Just a quick dip sir?”
    Lauterbach had no intention of involvement in either coaling or swimming. He already swam well enough and anyway, he had an old salt’s conviction that to swim too well was to invite shipwreck. Moreover, he had other fish to fry.
    The assigned colliers that moved slowly out to sandwich the Emden were the commandeered Staatsekretaer Kraetke , his own ship, and the Governeur Jaeschke , his previous command. Coaling was the most hated occupation in the entire navy. In harbour, it was only ever done by coolies and only a dire emergency would force European sailors to do it for themselves. It involved hours of backbreaking manual labour in the hot sun, choking on dust, digging and hauling sack after sack of the hated stuff with slashed knuckles and bruised shoulders from one ship to another. Serious accidents were frequent for each bag contained about a hundred pounds. Heatstroke posed a permanent threat. At the end of it, the entire ship was full of grime and had to be scrubbed clean. At the beginning, men did the job in their oldest clothes. As heat and wear and tear took their toll, modesty gave way to exhausted practicality. The bolder natives who paddled out to view this strange spectacle were shocked to see white men transformed into blackface demons, shovelling, spitting and swearing in a state of total nudity. In terror, they swiftly dumped the coconuts they had come out to sell, not even waiting for payment, and fled. Outside, a rhythm established itself – the accelerating pace of feet on a descending gangplank – thud, thud, thud –