Aug 20, 1600 hours, SMS
Galiano, Barclay Sound
Hauptbootsmann Krüger found it amusing that he was on the sharp edge of the flotilla, with this captured fisheries patrol vessel. Despite the armament, the
Galiano was simply not a warship. He was grateful to have command of his own ship, at the rank of petty officer first class. And he supposed if he was back home in Germany, he could just as well be commanding a boat this size on some river emptying into the Baltic, being sniped at by irate Poles or Cossacks, or Lithuanians. This was probably better.
Still, the landscape in this country unnerved him, with these huge trees and tall mountains, and exotic wild animals. The way of the world before people had crawled out of their caves. As Galiano pulled out of Ucluelet harbour, into Newcombe Channel, one of the rocks to his starboard was covered with creatures that looked like walruses, but that couldn’t be right. At closer glance, they seemed to have no tusks, so maybe they were some other kind of giant sea cow. He had never paid attention to these things in grade school.
Newcombe Channel, according to the
Galiano’s charts, was 2 nautical miles wide and 4 long, bounded on the north and west by the mass of Vancouver Island, the level forested shoreline rearing up into a range of mountains inland. To his starboard was the rest of Barclay Sound. The Broken Islands Group formed a maze of channels more land than water. Beyond the Broken Islands was another open stretch of water called Imperial Eagle Channel, then another wall of Islands, then narrow Trevor Channel then, 15 nautical mile to the south east, Bamfield Transpacific Cable Station. All the solid ground above the high tide level was green with cedar and fir trees, and the bare black wave swept rocks were draped in golden seaweed.
It was a testament to Captain Von Schönberg’s bravado, reflected Krüger, that he was hiding his fleet in this bolthole, mere miles from a telegraph station that was instantly connected to the farthest corners of the British Empire. In their briefing, the captain had emphasized that this would be another brief stopover. Lieutenant Radl had spelled out the security hazards for the patrols to be aware of: the tall lighthouse at Cape Beale had a commanding view of the entire Sound, but at 18 miles south east of Ucluelet, was unlikely to be able to see much detail. Only time would tell if the ruse of hiding the warships behind the large merchant ships had been effective. At the north end of the Sound was the Seshart whaling station. This was presumed to be still connected by telegraph to the rest of Canada, so it was to be avoided. And Radl had also repeated, if it was not deadly obvious, that the Sound was full of concealed reefs. Of this, Krüger had no doubt. Looking out towards to open Pacific, he could see surf breaking on a number of rocks, like jagged black teeth.
Just outside Ucluelet harbour, the
Liepzig’s prize liner was anchored. The giant stern, with
Niagara – London painted on the fantail loomed over Krüger’s head as
Galiano steamed past. The tanker
Desalba was following the patrol ship out of the harbour, so as to top up the liner’s fuel tanks with oil. Galiano had already coaled earlier. He marveled at the handsome vessel, completely incongruous in this wilderness setting. She was like a floating city, over 150 meters long. What was Von Schönberg going to do with that? Faces of the interned passengers and crew looked morosely out from portholes on the lower decks.
A red flare rose above the waters of the Sound. Krüger stepped out onto the bridge wing, and focused his binoculars on the
Nürnberg’s steam cutter two miles north of his position. The cutter was running east at full speed, chasing something. The men were lying low in the boat. Rifle barrels were aimed over the cutter’s stem. A splash as from a rifle bullet rose from the water beside. Krüger swung his binoculars to the right, until he found their quarry, a motor launch with a small cabin. Three men in green militia uniforms crouched behind the stern gunwales, aiming rifles. Several more heads peeked out inside the cabin, just high enough to be able to see over the foredeck. The rifles occasionally flashed, but the sound did not carry over the distance and wind and noise of
Galiano’s passage. If there was any doubt, the launch flew a red ensign. As Krüger watched, the wind took one of the militiamen’s peaked hats and flipped it into the sea. The
Nürnberg’s steam cutter was doggedly chasing the launch, but the interval between boats was neither opening nor closing. Both boats were bouncing over waves, slowing them and making marksmanship impossible. It was a low speed chase. The launch was making for a gap in the Broken Island chain, at what he estimated to be about 7 knots. The
Galiano might not be fast, but she was twice as fast as that.
“Action Stations! All ahead full!” ordered Krüger. “Helm, set a course to lead and intercept! Navigator, keep your eyes on that chart! We need to stay off any hidden rocks!” The
Galiano accelerated up to her full speed of 14 and a half knots. The crew of the 5.7cm deck gun, the gun the British called a 6 pounder, rammed a shell into the breech. The bridge crew heard tramping sounds on the wheelhouse roof as the Spandau gun up top was made ready.
In 15 minutes the
Galiano closed the range to the Canadian launch to 2000 meters. The launch changed course to the north east. “The Canadians are trying to lure us up on a reef,” warned the navigator. “Two points to starboard.”
“Two points to starboard,” ordered Krüger.
“Two points to starboard,” echoed the helmsman.
The launch was steering for a small treed island, perhaps half a kilometer end to end. Kruger looked to the east, and saw that the sightline to Point Beale was masked by intervening islands.
“Fire a warning shot across their bow,” he ordered.
The 6 pounder boomed. A waterspout rose off the bow of the launch, a little too close. Splinters broke the windshield and small holes appeared in the hull. The launch did not slow, but did change course again, this time to run behind the approaching small island. The
Nürnberg’s steam cutter was glued to the launch’s tail, 500 meters behind.
“Forty-nine shells left,” said Krüger. “We will not catch them before they get behind that island. Take us around the far side, and we will get them in a pincer.”
“That is Hankin Island,” said the navigator, reading off the chart. “We are good for depth, as long as we keep 50 meters off shore.”
The Galiano heeled over as she made a high speed turn to run around the island. The launch disappeared behind the rocks and trees. Then
Nürnberg’s cutter was masked by the island as well.
Five minutes later,
Galiano rounded the island, still leaning over in a turn. The launch had vanished. The
Nürnberg’s cutter was there. The German boat had cut her throttle and was coasting to a stop. Sailors stood up and pointed at the shore, then ducked as rifle bullets whizzed past them.
“Stop!” ordered Krüger.
Galiano put her engines astern and all grabbed on to the nearest fixture as the ship came to a sudden halt. A bullet smashed a bridge window. The stern of the launch was just visible in a small steep cove, run up on a shell beach, close against a tangle of driftwood logs. One of the militiamen was still scrambling up the steep rocky bank. Another bullet ricocheted off the foredeck, right beside the deck gun. The 6 pounder crew was very exposed, with no gun shield.
“Suppressive fire!” ordered Krüger. “All astern one half!” The Spandau gun on the wheelhouse roof opened up on the treed slope of the island.
Galiano began to back away. The cutter had turned away as well, and was also putting some distance between itself and the belligerent militiamen. “Sink that boat!”
The 6 pounder fired. The shell exploded against the rock cliff face of the cove, just above and the right of the launch, pummeling the boat and the tree line with splinters and rock fragments. One of the
Galiano’s gun crew was hit by a bullet, and fell to his knees. The 6 pounder fired again, this time into the trees. The explosion was lost in the thick forest, apparently to no effect.
Galiano continued to back away.
“Forty seven shells left,” said Krüger to himself. “Clear the foredeck!” he ordered. The deck gun crew abandoned their position, dragging the wounded man with them. “Sink that boat with the Spandau gun!” The machinegun shifted its fire to the receding grounded launch. Bursts of dust from bullet impacts walked down the rock slope, then played over the launch. The boat’s hull was obscured by splashes. A small orange fire broke out. Then the stern began to sink, and the fire was extinguished. Galiano continued to back away. The launch came to rest on the bottom of the cove, with the bow up on the tiny beach, and sea lapping inside the cabin. Splashes from rifle bullets still rose from the water around Galiano, but she was too far off for accurate fire.
“Enjoy your castle,” said Krüger towards the distant militiamen. “I hope you like swimming.”
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