“Heave to,” came an amplified voice from the ship. They could see her name on her hull, the Boston, and Charest knew it was a heavy cruiser.
“Ignore it,” snapped Stolper.
Charest shrugged and did as he was told. A moment later the order was repeated and ignored. Another moment, and an anti-aircraft gun fired a stream of shells into the water just yards in front of the Beaufort.
“What do we do now?” asked the lieutenant, clearly shaken by the American response.
“We stop,” said Charest as he gave the orders, “unless, of course, you want this ship and yourself riddled with shells larger than a house.”
Stolper paled, “Of course not.”
Charest signaled that he would comply and the Beaufort slowed to where she barely maintained control. The American cruiser ordered Charest to lower cargo netting over the side. Again, he complied and was impressed by swift efficiency of the launches moving toward his ship. Equally impressive was the fact that they were filled with heavily armed soldiers.
Again Stolper was upset, almost shaking with impotent fury. “They outnumber my small force.”
“I have been stopped by the Americans before,” Charest said. “In order to avoid any accident, I would strongly suggest that you have your men lined up on the deck and unarmed.”
“Agreed,” Stolper said angrily, “but not all of them. We need to guard our cargo.”
Grant was stuffed into a motorized launch with a squad of marines led by a hard faced sergeant. Westover was in another. Altogether, they had forty men headed to the Beaufort with more to come. Grant was nervous, but tried to conceal it. He clutched his M2 carbine, a brand new model that would fire full automatic, much like the venerable Thompson sub-machine gun. Sergeant Farnum had told him it was more accurate and had less of a kick than the Tommy gun. He hoped he wouldn’t have to find out.
The sailor driving the launch through the gently rolling sea skillfully brought her alongside the Beaufort. Grant’s was the second launch. Westover’s was first since he was the ranking naval officer and this was a navy operation.
The first squad was well up the side of the ship when Grant began his climb. Once again his shoulder roared with pain, but he willed himself to go up and over the railing. If he fell into the frigid water, he would likely drown before anyone could get to him. Finally, chest heaving, he stood on the deck and was confronted by a handful of German soldiers in bulky winter jackets who glared angrily at him and the marines. With the exception of an NCO and a young lieutenant who had pistols in holsters, the Germans were unarmed. Grant decided not to take chances and shifted his weapon to a more comfortable and accessible position.
“This is an outrage,” the German officer yelled at Westover and Grant, his face red with anger. “This ship has been chartered by the German government and has diplomatic immunity. You will get off this ship immediately.”
Westover shrugged. “That’s all news to me, young Adolf. We’ve gotten word that this tub is carrying contraband and we are going to search her, whether you like it or not. If everything is on the up and up, you will be permitted to proceed. If there is contraband, we will do what we have to, and that includes arresting or interning everyone and everything. My men and I are now going to inspect the cargo.”
“The hell you are,” screamed the German lieutenant. He pulled out his luger and fired point blank into Westover’s chest. Westover screamed and fell backwards. Grant quickly raised his weapon and fired several shots into the German who tumbled into a bloody heap. A couple of German soldiers reached for pistols they’d hidden in their jackets and began shooting wildly. Grant turned on them and continued to shoot. It was bloody chaos as marines and Germans fired at point blank range. There were screams of fear and pain as bullets ricocheted off metal walls and decks, while some found flesh.
In a few seconds, it was over. A couple of shocked and stunned Germans stood with their hands in the air, while the others lay on the deck, either dead or wounded. Grant checked and found that two marines were dead and two more wounded. Westover was alive, but barely, and a medic was working on him with quiet efficiency. Other marines climbed over the rail from their launches and quickly took up station, their faces contorted with rage at the ambush of their buddies. They were ready to kill.
Suddenly, gunfire emanated from below decks. Now what? Tom thought. “The Jews are escaping,” Charest said.
Grant slapped a fresh clip into his carbine, grabbed a few marines, and headed below, trying not to slip on the pools of blood that were congealing on the deck and running in rivulets down the stairs. He was greeted by the sight of a couple of dead Germans and three others who were unharmed, but being covered by several civilians with pistols.
“Who are you?” asked one of the civilians.
“U.S. Navy and Marines,” Tom said. He noticed that the man stank of body waste and was almost wild with fear. “Now put down those guns before more people get hurt.”
The man laughed harshly. “We’re Jews. They were going to take us to Germany to be murdered. What do we care if a few of them get hurt?”
Tom conceded the point. He did, however, get the Jews to put their weapons away. He had the hatches and other access points to the hold opened so the Beaufort’s human cargo could get some air. They were bedraggled, scared, hungry, and filthy. Little or no provision had been made for food, water, or sanitation. It was apparent that many of them would have died before they reached France.
Marine medics were taking good care of the wounded, and the Jewish leaders were doing the same for their own people, some of whom had been hit by stray bullets. More hatches were opened, and food and water was provided. Captain Carson arrived from the Boston and was appalled by the carnage as well as the condition of the Jews who’d been stuffed into the hold.
Carson checked over the casualties as they were being shipped back to the cruiser and her excellent medical facilities. The marine wounded might make it, but there was doubt about Westover. He’d taken two bullets in the chest. Fortunately, his life jacket had absorbed some of the blow, but he was still grievously hurt.
Tom checked over the men he’d shot. Both the SS officer and an enlisted man were dead. No one had bothered to cover their graying faces and they gazed blankly at the sky. Tom fought the urge to shake. In all the years he’d been in the army, he’d never fired a weapon in anger, never hurt anyone. Now, in the space of a few seconds, he’d killed two men. He’d snuffed out two lives and he felt miserable. So what if they’d been trying to kill him — he’d killed them. Of course, a second’s difference and he might be the one lying on the deck. He took a deep breath and got a hold of himself. With Westover down, people needed his leadership.
Grant found Charest sitting on a chair in his cabin. There was a blood-soaked bandage on his cheek where he’d been hit by a piece of flying metal. None of his crew suffered more than cuts and bruises.
“Well, American, am I your prisoner, too?”
“I hardly think so. We know what happened. We’re well aware that you gave all that information to the OSS and Canadian resistance so we could find you and stop this atrocity. By the way, where did the Jews get their guns?”
“A man from the Canadian underground gave them to me and I put them in the hold. If the rescue didn’t work, the Jews and my crew would try to take over the ship some night when most of the Nazis were asleep. I thought I’d even get the nasty pricks drunk to help out.”
Charest lit a cigarette and blew a perfect smoke ring. “What happens now to my ship, my men, and me, of course?