The Unsinkable Herr Goering by Ian Cassidy

Author:Ian Cassidy [CASSIDY, IAN]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780984964437
Publisher: Cassowary Press
Published: 2012-11-01T00:00:00+00:00

eleven

14th August, 1944

6.03am. Sitges. The men grumbled towards the harbour, too much beer, upset stomachs and the total impossibility of masturbation in the shared lavatory had only added their usual Monday morning blues.

Once inside the freshly painted hold, the men set to work with reluctant efficiency but not before Ivor had secured the first of many pots of tea from the Serbian cook, who had by now learnt the art of tea-making from the men and could now produce an almost acceptable brew.

The men worked steadily all day without incident. Coughlan took his usual post on the deck and punctuated his anti Ministry of Works vigil with stints of very gentle labour down below.

Much to the men’s annoyance, Konrad again checked on their progress but as he spent most of the time with Coughlan or elsewhere on the ship, their annoyance was short-lived.

At five-thirty, Coughlan told his men to down tools. He did not have to tell them twice. Soon they were propping up a harbour-side bar.

Harried along by the eager Jack, the men hurried through their ablutions and soon assembled in the bar opposite their hotel.

Their evening meal was an equally hurried affair, Coughlan achieving the impossible of eating at an even faster rate than usual.

Coughlan and Jack prepared to leave and the others took up their now familiar positions, Ivor happy at the pinball machine, Don and Bert gloomy at the bar, and Maurice somewhere in between but enjoying himself nonetheless as he sniped at Don or accidentally on purpose jogged his brothers’ flipper fingers.

Coughlan and Jack, now familiar with the route, made good time and much to their relief noticed that their destination’s crimson light was illuminated.

Coughlan rapped on the door and handed a large denomination Peseta note through the grille. The door swung open and a massive Somali doorman with bloodshot, hophead eyes invited them in. He pulled aside a plush red velvet curtain. Blinking, the two men entered the dimly lit room. The room looked surprisingly small despite the mirrors that lined its low walls. Banquettes lined one side of the room and there was space for just two free standing tables between these and the bar. Sitting at one of the banquettes was a swarthy sailor, who may have been from the Atheling, but he was now scrubbed up, without overalls or coating of grease and Coughlan could not be sure if he recognised him. There were no other customers and just two scantily clad, bored girls sat at one of the free standing tables. At the far end of the room was a small dance floor with an exotic mirror ball spinning above it.

Jack was dazzled by the lights. To him it all seemed very sophisticated. By the side of the dance floor stood a clapped-out upright piano unattended by a pianist. Instead, an antiquated gramophone strangled the tones of the Spanish equivalent of Peter Dawson.

Coughlan gulped and pressed towards the bar. He ordered two scotches and looked about him, trying to adopt an air of cosmopolitan unconcern.

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