Wreckers Must Breathe by Hammond Innes Page A

‘Answer me, you dog!’ he shouted.
    Logan’s face remained completely vacant.
    â€˜Geben Sie ihm eins mit der Peitsche, das wird ihn aufwecken,’ he ordered.
    The seaman measured his distance. Involuntarily I closed my eyes. The steel-cored thongs sang through the air and cracked down with a thud. Three red lines immediately showed on Logan’s brown back. They broadened and merged together into trickles of blood that ran down his hairy buttocks.
    â€˜Now will you answer me? Why did you hit the officer of the guard?’
    Still Logan made no reply. In sickening anticipation I waited for the order to give the next stroke. But at that moment the door of the guard-room opened and the commodore came in, accompanied by the doctor.
    â€˜Who gave the order for this man to be flogged?’ demanded the commodore. There was an ominous ring in his voice that no one could mistake. A sudden feeling of excitement gripped me.
    â€˜I did,’ replied Fulke, stepping forward to meet the other. ‘Do you challenge it?’ There was a veiled sneer in the way he put the question. He seemed very sure of his ground.
    The commodore’s only answer was to order the guard to release Logan from the triangle. Fulke advanced a step. For a moment I thought he was going to hit the commodore. A vein on his temple was throbbing violently. ‘He has struck the officer of his guard,’ he said. ‘He is to be flogged. Order and discipline are to be preserved in this base. Heil Hitler!’ He raised his right hand.
    The commodore seemed quite unmoved by this display. He did not answer the Nazi salute. ‘I am in command here.’ He spoke quietly but firmly. Then to the guard, ‘Take that man down.’
    â€˜My instructions are that this man be flogged,’ Fulke almost shrieked.
    The commodore ignored him. ‘Take that man down,’ he thundered, as the guard hesitated. At that the men jumped to it. In an instant Logan had been released from the triangle.
    â€˜You exceed yourself, Herr Commodore.’ Fulke was almost beside himself with rage. ‘That man is to be flogged. If you persist in your attitude my next report will be most unfavourable. You know what that means?’
    The commodore turned and faced Fulke. He was completely unruffled. ‘You forget, Herr Fulke—we are now at war,’ he said. ‘For three months you have bounced around this base, over-riding my orders, undermining the morale of my men by your schoolboy ideas of discipline. This is the submarine service, not a Jewish concentration camp. For three months I have borne with you because you had the power to hinder my work. Now we are at war. We have work to do—men’s work. No reports, except my own, will leave this base.’
    â€˜You will regret your attitude, Herr Commodore,’ snarled Fulke.
    â€˜I think not.’
    â€˜I’ll have you removed from your post. I’ll have you discharged from the service. You will be sent to a concentration camp. I will see to it that——’
    â€˜You will not have the opportunity. In any case, Herr Fulke, you must realize that men with long experience in the services are indispensable in wartime. On the other hand, the Gestapo is not indispensable. For instance, I cannot think of one useful thing that you can do. Doubtless we can teach you to cook. You will report on board U 24 which leaves for the Canary Islands tomorrow. You will replace their cook, who is ill.’
    Fulke’s hand went to his revolver. The commodore did not hesitate. His fist shot out and laid the Gestapo agent out with a lovely right to the jaw. I do not know how old the commodore was—at least fifty I should have said—but there was plenty of force behind that punch. His hand was raw after it, where the skin had split at the knuckles. ‘Guard! Arrest that man!’ he ordered. The two nearest men jumped forward. He turned to the other