Peering over the bulwark, the ocean shimmers like my seaside in Melbourne. Only these waves are a long way below my parched feet on this throbbing deck. And this sea is actually thrashing. The bow wave is huge too, way too big for us kids to surf. No matter, I must climb over the gunwale to fix my mistake. As Pappy used to scold, “You gotta test your mettle.”

I clamber onto the gangplank strung alongside my old warhorse ship. An only child commanding a decommissioned troop ship isn't all Dad's beer and skittles after all. The rickety handrail slithers and slaps the iron hull. This run-down passenger commuter, Duntroon is a handful. Mum says our cruise to Port Moresby is a get-well-soon present, and I'm putting on a growth spurt. Like I should know.

That smouldering day I was playing long-distance quoits with myself. I pretend it's a kids' cricket pitch. Anyway, this Captain (Ivor) Teddy finally chucks one overboard. Always heavy-handed. Luckily it lands on that slippery ramp slung along the starboard side. I feel dizzy sick just staring over at the flexing, but I force myself to walk the gangplank. Slowly I lose awareness of all but my next step. So far, so good. Quoit retrieved, I scramble back on board. What a kick!

Oh Schwepps – the Bosun is striding toward me. Now I wish the quoit had fully gone by the board. No point expecting a salute from Mac this time. The caber tossing Scotsman is livid. His eyes are flaring under that flaming red mop. He grunts, as if priming a pump to unleash a tirade. 

“No, no, you dinnae do that, not on my ship, lad. For pity's sake, man overboard! Ye daft or somethin'?” He's wagging one finger at my nose, and waving the other fist around.

“Never, you hear me, boyo. Listening? Ne'er go over a rail 'less you're bailing. Unnerstaun?”

“But you said I'm the Captain. I can ...”

“Argh! No, no ... no like that. Away with ya!”

I am ear-tweaked and frog-marched to our brig of a cabin, accompanied by a drum-roll of yammering. My dignified old parents are wide-eyed mortified.

A disabled father and a worn-out mother, desperate for R&R on this trip, had consigned me to my own devices. What mischief could a ten-year old concoct, all at sea without mates, bike, chemistry set, or my playground neighbourhood? Luckily the crew befriend the only kid aboard, particularly Mac who makes me the ship's mascot. I tour the bridge, the engine room, the officers' mess, and even the bilge, plus nooks along the way. I spend hours in the crew's quarters learning ropes and bad language. I master card games, gambling, girl talk and sports bravado.

On wet days I burrow into ever deeper passageways and discover panels of cryptic scrawl. Water-tight doors prove little obstacle; I'd seen the crew lever the squeaky wheel. My solo expeditions eventually take me through manholes and ducts. Here and there I notice a parcel tucked in a crevice. Strange. There's even some food morsels. Some are almost fresh. Puzzling.

Back on deck another day the crew are servicing the anchor. Lots of cursing and an occasional yap. Ferret is the ship's fox terrier. I like big dogs at home, but I can make do with a foxie who can squirrel into any crevice. Soon he follows me everywhere. Pity he won't sit and shake for me. And as long as I carry him up and down the ladders, he sniffs out packages in the strangest places. Curiosity sparked, I plant a couple of food parcels of my own. 

Two days later I find a parcel unpacked, and not by Ferret. Nor the rats. Who? Not the passengers; they can't even gorge all their lavish helpings. Anyway none can descend a ship's ladder properly. And there’s no other kids to compete for sweets; I made sure of that. The crew is well-fed too; I should know. Their mess is overflowing at meal times, and full of snacks in between. I hardly ever loiter the galley and grovel.

Time to grill Mac about our mystery scavenger. 

“Swain, does anybody live on board?”

“What laddy, you mean permanent? Ach, who would? We copped an owner for a month some years back. Naebody since.”

Dead end. So try a different tack. Nurse Flo is Mac's girl, or so the crew say. Been aboard nearly as long as Mac. Still speaks Pom. Long fair hair wound in a bun makes her even taller. Mum says she's from Devon. I love Devonshire teas – not the sitting prim and proper, just the scones, jam and heaps of cream. Anyway, Miss Flo is everyone's friend; solid and dependable. So I’ll quiz her next time she checks my wheeze.

“Miss Flo, do you speak German?”

“Teddy, I'm a ten pound Pom. After the London blitz we all learnt a smidge, just in case. Bloody gruff language – ah, sorry.”

“Can you read some words for me in the baggage hold?”

“What were you doing down there? Does Mac know? I'll give him whatfor if he's leading you astray.”

“No, no, found it on my own. There's markings all through the ship.”

“Yes, well that's soldiers' talk. Not meant for you. They wouldn't write German anyway. Now, tuck your shirt back in your shorts. Nearly dinner time.”

Easily deflated, I must look pretty dejected. She claps resoundingly.

“Righto young Ivo, after mess, you can show me.”

Jumping up, I'm out the door. “Yeah. Bring a torch. I'll bring Ferret and swat the spiders.”

Flo's not bad through the hatches and down the ladders, although she's a bit wide in the beam. At least her blonde bun wards off bumping the noggin. And she likes Ferret's attention. He looks at her sideways whenever she hesitates. She sure must be keen to see where I get up to mischief. Good thing she doesn't know about my boardwalk exercise. Thanks Mac.

“Teddy, it's putrid down here.”

“Over here, shine the torch, Miss Flo. See ..”

Through the dank air the beam lit up the rusty inner hull. The scribble reflects the whites of all the eyes that wrote it. Ferret follows the spot of light.

“Good god, there's graffiti everywhere. Teddy, this isn't for you.”

“This way Miss Flo, along the footbridge. Give me your hand. And keep your head down.”

“If you're going to hold my hand, call me Flo. Alright?”

We're nearing the bow. I can feel the panting. Flo is looking timid.

“It's just the pulse of the prow. Mac told me. The ship's breathing.”

“Well, it hurts my ears ... and it's foul. How much longer? What happened to the baggage hold anyway? We are way deeper.”

I heave the bulkhead porthole open. Flo lights up the crawl space. 

“No, no ... not in there. It's only a closet. Not even room to stand.”

I dive in, and coax poor Flo inside. I notice her fragrance. She's a spicy miss alright. Ferret follows. Flo crouches with her arm around him. I point her torch above us. Flo stares. Side-on her bright eyes sparkle. I can tell she's reading with surprise. I'm rapt too. She finishes, and looks pained. I think she's too choked to talk. All I feel is a softness like I want to pat her. 

“It's Jerry alright. Amazing, Teddy.” Smiling reassuringly at me, “I wondered if any were on board.”

Yippee for my discovery. I suddenly feel taller, and bump my scone.

“Incredible. This German writing is almost tidy, though in many hands. Not like our fellas' scribbling. You see their surnames too, not just the odd initials. There's one, 'Skeries'.” Pointing enthusiastically, “The extra letters must be their ranks. Here ... must be a lieutenant.”

I watch a tear glisten down her cheek. 

As her finger trembles, “Those squiggles could even be signatures. And look, Teddy, the dates are all forty-one or forty-two. Still early wartime, but after the blitz ... after my Dunkirk.” 

Ferret sniffs. Flo shifts her gaze to me. “How'd they get in here, Teddy? Fascinating. I'll ask around the crew.”

I squirm at a dreadful realisation.

“Ah, Flo, please don't tell where Jerry is. Not yet anyway. I'll be grounded if Mac or my olds learn where I go. Please, pretty please, Flo.”

“Alright Teddy, don't fret. I'll just say I thought I saw German writing in the baggage hold, and ask how it got there.”

“I trust you Flo. Cross your heart?”

Flo's better than a big sister, not that I want one. Too irritable. Bit old for a girlfriend, luckily. Too demanding. Anyway, onto my next item. What will Flo say about my other find?

“On the way back, Flo, I've something else to show you.”

“Not more surprises, Teddy! I can hardly wait.”

I lead Flo past one of the tucked away parcels. This discovery is as important to me as the writing. I point at the crevice. She glances, then instantly freezes. In the glow she looks like she's been caught out. Like I do with a pinched lollie. Ferret sits, expectantly.

“Who would hide this, Flo?” 

She shrugs. “Well, it's not mine, young man. Just leave it be.”

“But there's more. And food too. Who stashes snacks on board?”

“Teddy, listen to me. This is not your business, or mine. Promise me you'll forget about it. I mean it. Promise?”

Scalded, I shuffle about, nod, cross my heart ... and two hidden fingers.

“Now Teddy, get us out of here. Your folks will be wondering.”

Next day I'm in Flo's surgery waiting for her to stethoscope my bronchitis or pneumonia. Cough, cough, I hate being sickly, but no point grizzling. Along the passageway I hear Mac storm in. He's bellowing Scottish. Flo's trying to quieten him, probably for my benefit. I hear them shuffling. Then some whispering sweet-talk. Flo could be drawing him into the far cubicle. Mac still occasionally snarls something. I'm off the bunk, through the curtain, and creeping along the passage toward them.

“... Can ya b'lieve it? Just a wee engine issue. Turns into a great muckle. I got the oiler, fitter and two ratings ... all belly-aching at the blunt Engineer. Shite!” I wonder how close I can get. “Aye, me lass, and what's your trouble?” 

“It's Teddy.”

“Arh, rawly Teddy.” I imagine Mac praying skyward. “What's your Ivo done nou?”

“He's found German writing in the hold.”

“Aye, up forward? Tha's easy. You know, this old girl transported refugees, not just our boys.” 

“In the Far East, Asians sure. And ex-pats,” she adds. “We even know one Dutchman, eh Mac? But no Germans. You never mentioned any German sailors.”

Flo sounds a bit shrill.

“Lass, maybe a few Jerry prisoners too.”

“Jerries? You know I detest them. On our Duntroon?”

“Aye, not to worry, Pet. Let it be, awricht.”

More shuffling, a sob or two, and whispering again. Gee I'm rapt. Prisoners of war, POWs, yes! I'm straining to listen, but Mac's gone quiet too. I can only hear Flo pacing. She suddenly stops.

“Teddy's also found some hiding spots, some with food. Must be Frits, right? Look, I love our Papa, but boy-scout Teddy will encounter the gnarly gnome sooner or later. Nothing surer. What do we say then?”

Mac's boot stomps. “Mmh, that's no so good. ... Shite!”

Flo tries to shush him now. More stomping double-time.

“Weel, Teddy must'a found the walkway for'd over the bilge. He's a gutsy lad alright. But the wee geet could bring us grief, you're richt. Aye, let me think on it, wumman. Anyhoo, ah will busy him wi’ me next day or so. Just ye keep lad under wing too.”

“Righto. He's in the aft cubicle now, playing doctor.”

Mac's footsteps accelerate. Quick, back to my cubby hole, pronto. Now I'm wondering ... who's Frits? And why's Flo call him Papa?

Later that arvo I'm on deck with some of the crew when the ship stops humming. My toes feel it first. Then the slowing silence expands. The guys just nod among themselves and deal another hand. They say we're coasting past the port of Cairns, gateway to the Great Barrier Reef. Mac ambles by. No fuss.

“Lucky Cairns is timely fo' repairs, eh boys? Bloody donk. No oil pressure.” 

There's a knowing grin or two from the crew. Mac winks at me and slips below. I'm on his heels. I hate the breathless pong of diesel in the engine room and its greasy slime. But it's eerie quiet now. When the First Officer appears, I slip away. On deck the crew are whinging at the downtime and delayed passage. Sure they are! Perhaps it's the dull prospect of nightlife in town. 

After limping into port around sundown, we're soon careering into town in someone's Jeep. No headlights, just the Moon and potholes. I'm perched on the tailgate. Mac and the fellas chortle ditties as we swerve along tunnel tracks. I'm swiped by the odd palm branch. Like a horror chamber tour, the trip is full of delicious surprises. We abruptly skid to a halt. Time to crash a bar or three. I'm given a girl or two to mind. Ho-hum. They seem to enjoy being off-duty with me, plied with complimentary drinks, courtesy of Mac. The crew moves on but the ruckus keeps swelling. Mac disappears in search of the rowdiest ones. Or more booze and women.

Next morning the crash of a loose gantry wakes the deck chair potatoes. When Mac sees me farting around the debris I scurry below to avoid his mean stern looks. Meeting Ferret, he scampers ahead, yapping back at me. Tail wagging, he's onto something. Actually, someone. 

Not a passenger or crewman I've seen before. He's an old-timer, scrunched over. He's pasty white like his beard and brimless cap. When I see his hands I'm thinking ghostly, but I gotta act fearless.

“I'm Ivor but Teddy will do. This is Ferret.” At least Ferret's happy as Larry circling the maybe not so old man.

“Frettchen, nein! Sitzen! ... I am Frits, young man.” Ferret sits.

“Are you with the crew? I haven't seen you before.” 

Frits slowly sits on a tea chest and starts filling a pipe. After a puff Ferret jumps on his lap.

“Young Teddy, is it? Can you keep a secret?”

“Sure, Nurse Flo asked me to keep yours.”

“Vhat! She told you about me?” Ferret stirs.

“Not exactly. Flo said to forget about the food parcels.”

“Zee stores, as you say, 'for rainy day,' ja?”

Frits jabs the pipe my way. “So, Teddy, you can forget finding me too?” 

“Are you a stowaway?”

“Vell, I am on this ship many years. No papers, so Mac the bosun and crew not tell the officers.”

“Are you German?”

“I prefer Dutch but ...”

“Can you read German? I found some writing for'ard. Flo couldn't read it all.”

“Ja, I know all about that. Young Teddy, what did Fraulein Flo say about me?”

“Nothing. Are you a prisoner of war?” Ferret jumps down and plops between us, looking restless.

Frits looks around and puffs. “I need zis ship. It's my home ... Frettchen, halt! Teddy, can you take him on deck? For der sandkasten, er, sandbox.”

“I meet you here again?”

He leans over to shake my hand. “You von't tell?”

“Nein. ... Come on Ferret.”

The next time I drop by the clinic I'm smiling, but Flo is definitely crooked on me. Like my mum, she's not about to say why. Instead, she smoulders until I can't take anymore.

“What's up, Flo?” She waves me off, looking for some apparatus or other, but really seething. I join in, rattling bits and pieces around.

“Teddy, stop that gadgeting and fidgeting. For heaven's sake!” Flo turns her back on me. Hands on hips, she asks the porthole, “How was Cairns' nightlife?”

“Ah, fun. The Jeep ride was like the carnival.”

“What did you do? Meet anyone nice?”

“Just the bars. There were some girls ...”

“Oh glory be! What happened?”

“They're crazy. Told me great stories about the crew ... brawling and carrying on. Wild stuff.”

“And Mac? What was he up to?”

“He kept buying us drinks, and lollies. But he had to watch the crew.”

“So he wasn't womanizing like you, eh? Small mercies.” 

I can tell her wry grin. 

“Still leading you astray, the cad. Wait 'til I get my hands on him.”

“Aw, Flo, Mac's a good bloke. He looks out for me ... picks me only the nice girls.” I start fidgeting again. Flo could still blow her top.

The Cairns escapade cost Mac some sleep. The officers worked out the engines hadn't failed. And Flo is still fuming over me. But I must attend the clinic. Mac and Flo are at it, hammer and tong. My olds could never keep up, thankfully. I hear Flo in full fury, “... only a child ... traiping sleazy town ... bars and strip joints ... molls.” In return, Mac is “... y'ur the lappie-mirther, you mind him then, specially nighttime ... you do better ... he'll be more of a mischiefer fo' ye.” Whoa. I'm off to find Ferret and duck below.

Later I look for Mac on his own. Around sunset he’s on the lower deck smoking. Mum reckons puffing soothes mind bumps.

“Sorry about the trouble, Mac.” His craggy mooch looks round at me.

“Think no of it, laddy.” And with a wink, “Weemen.”

“What about the First Officer and the engines?”

“Just brislin. Bit het up. Steam blown off nou.”

“I met Frits, you know.”

Mac looks away. “Och, did ye nou?” Taking a drag, “Ye keep it to ya'self, boyo. Aye?”

“No worries, Mac. Promise. Just tell me, how come Frits is a prisoner?”

Mac butts out, and walks me farther aft. “Mind you hold y'ur tong wi' this. Awricht?” 

I extend my hand. Mac puts his arm round my shoulder.

“Frits is no Dutchy. In the War, Oberleutnant Fritz Skeries be the gunnery officer on a German raider, Kormoran.”

“Fritz is the enemy! But Flo hates Jerry – ah, she thinks he's Dutch?”

“Aye, she soft on her Papa. So no tellin'.”

Argh! I'm seeing red like Flo would.

“So what's a raider?”

“A merchant ship fro' ootside, but heavily armed in disguise. It sneaks up allied merchants, to capture or sink 'em.”

“Did Fritz sink our ships?”

“Aye, lad, some. Ere thair raider come ower p'haps the pride of your navy, the leet cruiser, Sydney. An' the Kormoran sank her too. True. All Sydney's crew went down.” 

“No! How many died?”

“Six hundred or more. And most of Kormoran's crew leeved. “

“But Mac, how can an armed merchant sink our top warship?”

“That's the mystery, laddy. They say Sydney came too close, thinkin' Kormoran was a friendly.”

“So Fritz won. Wow! How'd he end up prisoner on Duntroon?”

“B'for Sydney sank, she managed to cripple Kormoran. Jerry scuttled and got captured off Fremantle.”

“'Scuttle' means they still ran away?”

“Nah, laddy. They sunk their own ship to mar capture, then tried for land in their lifeboats. This very Duntroon shipped Kormoran's officers to Melbourne. But ou' canny Fritz went missing. Dis'peared.”

“What, he hid on board? Chicken!”

“None of it. Fritz did his duty, awricht. Later, the Reich bestow the Iron Cross First Class. But your michty navy reckon Fritz couldna sink Sydney, less Kormoran conned it. Ya nou, deceived it?”

“You mean their ship pretended to be friendly? That's dirty.”

“No that simple lad. Soldiers can camouflage. Ships can disguise 'emselves, long as they hoist their real flag afore attacking. Fritz swears they did, but only when Sydney closed 'nuff to lose the upper hand. Your navy no believe him. And Fritz as gunnery officer, copped it worst, b'for 'n durin' the Duntroon vaige. A bloody hidin' he gat, his back like tread. You dunna want to see how hard a man can be flayed, Teddy. Mind 'n body.”

“Fair dinkum, Mac, Flo would kill Fritz if she knew his real story. Her Tommy died at Dunkirk. She told me the Germans shot him in the back scrambling to board a ferry.”

“Trulins, Teddy. Aye! When she first board Duntroon and hear about a stowaway, I hid he was a Nazi prisoner. She would'a gone stark wuld. But one day she melloo, li' the rest of us. The War's weell over nou. Awready Fritz could be her pa. Bonny lass.”

One drizzly morning I'm practising knots under shelter. Ferret is tugging at the loose ends. I try lassoing him, but he sidesteps and yaps like it's another game. Mac strides by and chuckles.

“T'night I'll learn ye the Zeppelin bend. Here, seven sharpish. Aye?”

After supper I slip away. I'm early but I see Mac and Flo in the shadows. They're smooching so I stay back. The tenderness intrigues me. It's not part of their nine to five jobs. Maybe that's why they like it. Pity I can barely hear them, until Flo startles, “You invited Teddy here? When?”

“Around nou. What's it matter, lass?”

“Mac, if he discovers us as an item, or Frits any day now, he's bound to tell.”

Mac tries to calm her, but Flo wont have it.

“Flo ... Flo, just wait a rap. List to me. Teddy's awready met ou Frits!”

Flo goes limp, and Mac draws her closer. 

“Teddy give his word ... he'll no blab. Ah tell you why. The lad finishes what he starts. Ye know the board'n ramp yonder side? While back, he clambered onto it – to fetch a quoit he tossed o’er. True. Ship under way I couldna order crew to clim o’er.”

I can see Flo gasp. She'll go ape, but Mac clasps her cheeks like he's rubbing noses. “ .. tell you, lass, he's enough of a man no to gab. He's one wi me.”

Flo's head drops to his shoulder. 

Time for me to arrive. “Ferret, mushy stuff, eh?” as he yaps on cue.

“Ah Teddy, Mac was just showing me the airship knot,” as they loosen grip.

I've been back to the rendezvous looking for Fritz. One time I found an old pair of binoculars. The next time the glasses are still there, so I take them to Mac. He says they're 7x50 Kriegsmarine, by Zeiss. Pre wartime German quality, and definitely Fritz'. Mac reckons he must want me to have them, but I don't feel right. I return them and wait. By lunchtime Ferret is getting irritable. At least I've worked out how to adjust the right eyepiece to focus properly. As we leave, Ferret turns and points. Fritz coughs.

“You like Zeiss, ja?”

“So clear, for miles, amazing.”

“They are yours then.” I nod sideways. “Vhy not? No use to me in here.” I smile.

“Thank you, but how do I explain without dobbing? And they're German.”

“Ah, your promise. Goot. So you hide them until departure. Zen, just say you find them. They're nobody's.”

“Okay.” Then it hits me. “I'll miss Ferret ... everyone aboard.”

Fritz pats me on the head. “You keep promises and your memories. Be strong, ja?”

I can't hide Fritz' glasses in my cabin in case Mum finds them and asks who gave them to me. Ditto Flo, but if I tie them in wrapping paper, hopefully she'll mind them without prying. If she asks, I rehearse my reply. 

“It's a parting gift from Fritz, only to be opened when I disembark.”

Doesn’t work.

“Well Teddy, if I'm to mind it, you won't mind me taking a peak first.”

Before I can think how to say 'no', she's staring at a pair of binoculars labelled 'Kriegsmarine von Zeiss'. Recognising them to be German military issue, she steps back and glares at me. Horror registers as her colour leaks away. When she grabs my hand she's on a mission, pale but putrid.

Outside her surgery she commands Ferret, “Finden Frits.” Flo is dragging me along in frenzied search. She finally finds Fritz ambling in a dank passageway. Flo halts abruptly and calmly queries to his back, “Kriegsmarine von Zeiss? Ein geschenk für Teddy?” 

Fritz hesitates, then simply tosses over his shoulder, “Ja.”

Flo is squeezing my hand and trembling. Ferret is circling himself between us and Fritz. She coughs out, “Where did you get military issue binoculars?” 

I'm tugging her hand to be released. Flo darts down at me, “Stop it!”

Fritz turns and answers, “Fregattenkapitan Theodor Detmers, my commanding officer on HSK Kormoran.”

Flo winces like a needle has been flung in her eye. I break free. No sound, then one screech as she whirls about and weaves back along the passage. 

Fritz is weeping too. “Go, Teddy, calm her. Bitte.”

I catch Flo at the watertight door to go on deck. She's collapsed in a corner. I sit next to her. I give her my grubby hankie. She snorts and clasps my hand. Ferret almost crawls up to us.

“He's the enemy. I thought he was like Papa.”

I want to say how Mac explained Fritz to me. But all I can manage is, “He was the enemy.”

“Where's Mac do you think? I want a piece of him. Liar!”

Oh boy, here we go again. Flo's raging, with me in tow.

Mac sees us coming. His arms lift aside with a shrug. What can he say? Flo only just stops when she's nose to nose. “Dutchy, my arse.”

Mac glances at me, and Flo let's me go. “You're a liar, Mac the Bosun.”

He steps back and checks if any crew are in earshot. “Flo, ye wouldna be civil, no matter War's done. Fo' awbody's sake, had to keep the peace.”

Flo's seething and readies to slap him. 

“What he say ye, lass?”

She's hesitating. 

I offer, “Fritz straight out admitted he was aboard Kormoran.”

“Aye Flo, ye dippit on him and 'e struck his true colours at ance. Gotta give 'im that, lassie. Nou it's cleared yer pretty head, we can move forrit.”

I grudgingly accept my adventure is ending. The days get harder. Too much to cram in. I spend every minute with someone – Mac, Flo, Fritz, the crew. My parents seem surprised to see me. They can wait. On my last day I return to where I first met Fritz. Laying on the tea chest as if waiting for me is a book. Its blue dog-eared cover says 'Langenscheidt Taschen Wörterbucher'. I open it and realize it's a battered German-English dictionary, obviously Fritz'. I move it aside and plop dejectedly on Fritz' box. Ferret hops in my lap. I pat him and start to cry. No holding back. I can't face leaving. Eventually I doze off, propped against the bulkhead. 

Ferret stirs when Fritz shuffles in. I shift off his seat. He lights up. Ferret's ears prick, hoping Fritz is fossicking a tidbit. Instead out comes a notebook, small like the psalms in church, and just as worn out. I watch him leaf through it, almost affectionately. Then he quickly hands it to me. I carefully lift the blank cover. The pages are tiny handwritten, in German I guess. A few pages include diagrams.

“What's this?” I go to hand it back, thinking it must be precious.

“Keep it.”

“But I can't read it.”

“You will one day. Our secret until then, ja? Keep it safe.”

“Sure. Did you write it? All these entries.”

“Ya vol, Junker. Mein logbuch.”

“What's it all about?”

Fritz taps his chest and puffs. Ferret leaps in his lap and looks at me, unblinking.

“It vas a trick I think, Teddy. Your warship steamed abeam us, so near I put Zeiss aside. I order our broadside guns ready, point blank. Her main six-inch guns can now only fire over us. Too close, too friendly, you see?”

“Sydney dropped its guard?”

Fritz shrugs, incredulous. “Young Teddy, shake my hand. And do not forget das Wörterbuch – you vill need it for my logbuch one day.”

The day my parents and I disembark, Flo is waving from the deck above the gangway. I can see her lips exaggerating. I know she's mouthing the saying she and Mac drilled into me about Fritz, ‘Loose Lips Sink Ships’.

--oOOo--

The gangplank lurches as I disembark the Duntroon ahead of my parents. Mum shrieks, “Teddy!” I wave, no problem. Been there! Last time I had to really hold on to retrieve a deck quoit. This time I just tighten my grip on an indecipherable logbuch; the war diary entrusted to me by the stowaway Oberleutnant Fritz Skeries. Boyish arrogance and naivete propel me to decode it one day. My mission is to find why the Australian light cruiser HMAS Sydney dropped her guard and was sunk with all 645 hands lost; sunk by gunnery officer Fritz’ German raider HSK Kormoran, disguised as the Dutch freighter Straat Malakka.

Back in Melbourne there's a new kid on my block. Rudi and his parents are post-war European migrants with splotchy English. Once us kids work out he's actually German, the taunting begins. He fights back with a double-edged sword. His father was an SS sergeant, so watch out. We start a ging war across the street between our houses. First yonnies fly, then marbles, and finally we escalate to ball bearings. He snipes from his vantage in a tall tree behind his front fence. I sneak around my back yard to fire from unexpected cover. We're good enough shots to just miss each other, for now. 

Eventually the loner Rudi learns enough English, and with my pestering, enough slang to mix in. We start to get along, but always as rivals. I persistently fail to headbutt a soccer ball through a hoop. And he'll never kick a footy right, let alone master a torpedo punt. But his Dad's medal and SS insignia have clout. So I tell him a bit about stowaway Fritz on the Duntroon. Rudi doesn’t believe me until I show him Fritz' Zeiss binoculars with the Kriegsmarine logo. We have to trust each other now, sort of.

After a couple of years sparring Rudi announces he's leaving. His folks are buying a house out west. I promise to visit, but don't expect to. At least I can show him Fritz' logbuch now. Rudi can barely understand a sentence, though most words are recognisably German. He says it's double Dutch. So we squabble over what the diagrams mean. Days later Rudi tells me he sketched one from memory for his father. Geez! I punch him in the arm. Rudi swears he didn’t blab about Fritz; just “Teddy found a German notebook on his ship.” I bet!

Anyway, his 'fuhrer' supposedly guessed what the two curves represent. First they converge, then run near parallel, before veering away. Rudi says they show the course of two ships in a naval engagement. That's some leak, Rudi! Glad I didn't spill anymore about Fritz the gruff old sailor, pale as his pipe smoke.

--_-_--

With today’s hindsight I suspect Rudi's father gleaned a lot more from his son's tattle. Clearly, the Kriegsmarine binoculars would suggest their owner Fritz was a German naval officer. That anyone remained hidden on the Duntroon ten or so years after the war indicates a self-imposed exile; indeed a ‘missing’ prisoner of war assisted by the crew and befriended by Teddy. To further surmise that Fritz was from HSK Kormoran would be straightforward. The post-war newspapers reported only German navy prisoners from Kormoran were shipped to Australia. So Fritz’ logbuch was likely his naval logbook – his war service diary or journal – supplemented during his Duntroon years with memoirs in code. His story lay primed and waiting for me to eventually explode it.

Of course I knew from Mac the bosun on the Duntroon that only one POW went missing, presumed overboard – one Oberleutnant Fritz Skeries, the Kormoran’s artillery officer. The Third Reich 'posthumously' awarded him the Iron Cross First Class for his instrumental role in sinking Sydney, the flagship of our navy. Also awarded, Kapitän Detmers and the other officers were interned at Dhurringile POW camp in Victoria. According to official records, all were repatriated in 1947, including one Oberleutnant Fritz Skeries. How curious.

Over the years I learned Duntroon herself sank two ships, both friendly collisions. Duntroon's colorful wartime history amplified the mystique I absorbed as an inquisitive chap. I recall being transfixed on discovering Duntroon's bowels graffitied in layers like Aboriginal paintings. I expected to read the where, when, and who; instead I gradually realized the act of scribbling was more important to the personnel than leaving any factual record for posterity, me included. 

And I still fondly remember Nurse Flo as the only working woman on the Duntroon. She was handsome before I understood the attraction. She dispensed mild derision to the snotty officers, and muffled sarcasm to the pretentious passengers. As for the burly crew, even with her half smile she wouldn't take any crap. And then there was her Teddy, the supposedly sickly child. Big for his age, but bronchial and barrel breasted. She dares not soften more than a smidge. Doubtless I was a welcome relief from middle-aged female passengers with hypochondria and menstrual issues, sipping gin slings and juggling gossip. Flo once told me how she lost her man early in the War at Dunkirk. And that she gradually wrinkled inside. She surfaced nursing a harboring resentment for ungrateful post-war wives presenting as sham patients. So would I.

--_-_--

Thirty years after disembarking Duntroon, entrusted with Fritz’ encrypted logbuch, Teddy had morphed into an information technology professor; one in a newly developing specialisation: internet signals espionage. The circumstances are another story, full of snakes and ladders. The relevance of being on the bleeding edge of IT spycraft occurred when Dr Ivor (Teddy) Jo cracked his first state secret in the late 1980s – Fritz’ indecipherable journal sprang back to mind. It had lain dormant among his library of never to be re-read novels. Similarly, this Teddy had languished as a depressive yet functional alcoholic. But now this self-conscious, reserved smoker with hairy forearms and an aversion to flying is on top of his nefarious world.

Resurrecting Fritz’ logbuch brought back the joys of people Teddy could trust. In his boyhood 1950’s the Duntroon crew were all straight-up mates. Fritz was chivalry personified. And Nurse Flo exemplified Teddy’s model woman, an idol never surpassed. The next thirty years of failing to meet his and their expectations took a toll. Teddy grew warped with the buffeting of life’s unscrupulous acquaintances. These norms whittled Teddy into a cranky sceptic, a cupboard cynic, rarely assertive yet easily inflamed. 

In the late 80’s the official inquiries into the sinking of Sydney had not begun. The JCFADT report on the catastrophe occurred in 1998, and the Cole 'Loss of HMAS Sydney II' in 2009. The former was intended to furnish the lack of official information, under wartime secrecy provisions, about our worst maritime disaster. And pointedly to also quell popular research and speculation published in the 70s and 80s. It concluded that the only surviving German accounts of the battle were ‘feasible.’ No reliable evidence supported any of the far-fetched claims of Nazi treachery, a Japanese submarine attack, or a government cover-up. But Fritz’ logbuch would add an extra dimension.

The Cole inquiry was prompted by the finding of Kormoran and Sydney in 2008. The sunken wrecks finally revealed that Kormoran had successfully targeted Sydney’s bridge, destroying her ability to coordinate a response, especially when her final state confirmed she was not even at full battle stations. And Sydney was at close quarters, having yielded its tactical and weapons advantage to the disguised raider before it raised its true colours and opened fire. Cole held Sydney’s Captain Burnett completely responsible for her loss, whereas the earlier JCFADT report was noncommittal in explaining the (in)actions of her Captain and bridge officers. Perhaps accountability lies in between.

Kormoran's infamy for sinking Sydney on 19 November 1941 still lingers to this day, despite thorough examination of both wrecks in 2008 and the forensic conclusions of the Cole inquiry in 2009. The mystery remains. What lured Sydney to approach a freighter for identification, so close abeam as to give away her gunnery advantage to a possibly camouflaged raider, one now within reach to fire a surprise broadside?

This very question has haunted me inconsolably since Fritz apparently grappled with the answer for his whole self-imposed incarceration on Duntroon during and after the War. I recall when Fritz handed me his logbook, he leafed through it one last time, almost affectionately. But now I feel he anguished long and hard before entrusting me. Fritz obviously encoded his memoirs to ensure only responsible eyes would ever bother to uncover their startling significance.

With the 1980’s resurgence of public controversy over the sinking of Sydney I was prompted to utilise my IT cipher skills to determine if Fritz’ encrypted logbuch, his naval war service journal, could provide answers. This was years before the first inquiry, the subsequent locating of the wrecks in 2008, and the consequent Cole inquiry. And so it was in 1990 that if I could decode Fritz’ log, the myths and rumours engulfing Australia and re-igniting argument over the submerged Sydney might be settled.

My research into the other Kormoran officers’ logbooks, confiscated during internment as POWs, found no encryption. In particular Detmers’ kriegstagebuch had been forensically analysed. Was Fritz log the only encrypted one? Digging further I learned that in 1945 when Kormoran’s officers were recaptured after briefly escaping from Dhurringile, Detmers carried a German-English dictionary. It included two accounts of the battle with Sydney – deck action and engineering reports – both encrypted with a simple Vigenère cipher. Detmers' story became well known in 1959 with the publication of his ‘The raider Kormoran.’

Parts of Fritz’ logbook were in a far more sophisticated code. I still wonder, was it this lingering decryption task that set Duntroon Teddy unconsciously on his burgeoning spy career path in the early 1990s? Looking back, how else could Fritz hope for Teddy alone to eventually decipher his logbook puzzle? Anyway, I soon discovered Fritz’ encoded journal was not readily crackable until the computer era. Finally, the past and present could explode exponentially.

--_-_--

Once I painstakingly cracked Fritz’ logbook I gleaned tantalising insights into Kormoran’s actions, and frustrating hints as to Sydney’s behaviour. There was still no conclusive explanation of the ongoing mystery. What lured Sydney to approach a freighter for identification, so close abeam as to give away her gunnery advantage to a possibly disguised raider, one now within reach to fire a surprise broadside? At least I had new enticing clues to connect.

I scratched at these itchy hives with my usual bluff and bravado. Infusing intellectual curiosity with superiority and conceit I brashly set out to find Fritz for the answers. My successful decoding exercise had sparked a new mission – find Fritz and untangle the knotty remaining mystery.

The crusty rundown Duntroon was sold in 1960 and towed to Hong Kong. Tracing the crew was a deadend. But I found ageing Nurse Flo through hospital staff records. She had Alzheimers yet recalled Mac smuggling Fritz ashore in Fremantle from the Duntroon on route to HK. Since then Fritz may have moved on of course. But without papers, he may have just stayed put. I hoped.

In 1990 Fritz would be in his eighties so I tried aged care institutions in Freo. I was looking for a short, pipe-smoking, German speaking, geriatric man who lacked credentials and liked dogs. Perhaps disguised to look like any other old sailor. But one with a hidden story I must reveal. The analogy with Kormoran in a sea of other freighters did not escape me. Eventually I heard about one undocumented former sailor who occasionally spoke German. He called himself Ted Duntroon.

--_-_--

When I visit the Fremantle Old Salts Home I recognise Fritz among the other gerries – he still has his Duntroon pipe. Uncomfortable and impatient in this charnel house I wheel Fritz outside to smoke privately. 

“I’m Teddy from the Duntroon.” 

“Ja, zen you knew Frettchen?”

“Ferret the foxie. We were good mates.”

Fritz smiles languidly and coughs. “So they tell me Teddy is Dr Ivor now. Have you deciphered mein logbuch?”

“It’s not exactly what your Kapitän Detmers wrote in his 1959 book.”

“Nein. He vould not raise personal confidences. His objective account still true, as far as it goes. Vhen Sydney demands Kormoran prove she is friendly Straat Malakka ve not have secret Allied callsign. So ve must raise der Reichskriegsflagge, our war ensign, and attack Sydney.”

“But unlike Detmers’ book, your log, your journal entries, hint at the remaining mystery – why Sydney came close enough to give away its tactical advantage.” I pull a seat up and look Fritz fair in the eye. “Why did Sydney expose herself to a point-blank broadside from a still not definitely identified freighter, possibly a disguised raider, probably well-armed at close range?”

“Ich kenne. I know. But the answer only makes sense vhen you ask the right questions, jung Ivor.”

“Okay. Let’s start with the Oberleutnant Fritz Skeries, the one interned in a POW camp with your Kapitän Detmers and the other officers until 1947.”

Fritz chuckles. “Doppelgänger, mein gott!” 

I frown. Not funny.

He sneers. “Man overboard Bürokratie too much for your incompetent government. Nein Deutscher effizienz.”

“Oh Fritz, that’s a lousy holocaust joke. Or are you just Aussie bashing?”

“Nein, nichts für ungut.” Fritz inhales. “Kapitän orders me stowaway for my protection. Sentry reports mich overboard to save face. Commander bungles paperwork. Authorities on shore panic. Then accept Kapitän’s offer of our midshipman to stand in. Losing a Kormoran officer vould look very bad, ja?”

“Maybe you’re the impersonator. Your whole ship was!”

“Look, Kapitän promotes zee shortest crew member who looks like me. Everyone wins. Midshipman knows zilch about artillery – even better.”

I shrug. Maybe.

“Jung doctor, you deciphered zee logbuch of Kormoran’s artillery officer, Fritz Skeries. My log. Genuine, ja?” He jabs his pipe at me. “I, Fritz, instructed zee detailed tactics for Sydney, zee exact targets – Sydney’s bridge height, her command locations in priority order, port and steuerbord. I trained crews to hit bullseye under 10 seconds a round. I can still repeat ballistisch kalculations from memory. You quiz me.” The pipe quivers.

“Okay, okay. But why the fixation with Sydney? HMAS Canberra was also in your area.”

“Keine chance! Heavy cruiser Canberra protects convoys. Light cruiser Sydney patrols; she unpredictable, like us. But faster. And Sydney your flagship; bester preis for us.”

“So how did Kormoran know so much about Sydney? Your log reveals secret data about Sydney’s structural layout and details of her command personnel.” 

“When our Kriegsmarine HQ briefed Kapitän Detmers about Sydney ve learned most of Sydney's bridge officers, zee wardroom, ver seconded from Royal Navy. Very experienced from Sydney's Mediterranean battle campaign. But no local knowledge of freighter itineraries, cargoes. Und your Sydney's Australian Captain Burnett vas new to his command from a senior shore posting. Zheir coast patrol should be uneventful warm-up, no battle. So our Kormoran can be convincing as Straat Malakka.”

“Well, I’m not convinced, Fritz. What else did you ferret about Sydney?”

Fritz taps his pipe out and slowly repacks it. “When Kormoran ordered to hunt and mine West Australian shipping lanes, meine Kapitän Detmers besessen with HMAS Sydney. I give exempel…” He looks to me for a light.

“Kapitän learns zhat before the War our radio-officer vas aboard ein Deutscher freighter, und it moors opposite Sydney in Spanischer port. Our RO say zee two crews visited each other’s ship. I never see Kapitän Detmers so emotionell. Hurra, he singt!” Fritz takes a puff of the unlit pipe. “Kapitän Detmers interrogates RO for exact places of Sydney's command posts and weapons. Our Kapitän records positions, dimensions, elevations – all targeting daten.”

“Fritz, your log records Kormoran radioed German HQ when a new disguise was needed before entering Australian waters. Why did Detmers choose the Dutch freighter Straat Malakka, when HQ could not confirm its secret Allied callsign? Without this callsign, any ship claiming to be Straat Malakka would be suspect.” 

“Our RO so sure he can, how you say, bluff. Allied warships accept us neutral freighters lazy with wartime identification. Also Kriegsmarine HQ satisfied zee silhouettes of Kormoran and Straat Malakka passably similar. Und jung Ivor, zee real Straat Malakka in Dutch East Indies.”

“So, did your bluff work?”

--_-_--

Fritz goes on to describe the encounter with Sydney, as summarised by the diagrams in his log showing the relative positions of both ships – before, during and after the battle. His details turn out later to corroborate the records from the official inquiries to follow in 1998 and 2009. In particular, Fritz’ log confirms the 2009 Cole inquiry deductions on the relative battle positions of Sydney and Kormoran, inferred from the damage found on the wrecks in 2008. Fritz was correct all along.

Fritz’ records from the War and his recollections in the 1990’s extend beyond substantiating the war-time evidence provided by other Kormoran crew, and notably Kapitän Detmers. The crew’s evidence was probably agreed around the time they scuttled the Kormoran, refined during their Duntroon voyage, and expounded during their POW stint. Fritz was not privy to all this, and so provides a more independent account. His revelations follow.

When Sydney first sights Kormoran over 20 mile away, Kormoran turns into the sun and increases speed. Sydney begins to flag signal the freighter for identification. Given the late afternoon sun now behind the unidentified freighter, her flag response might not be clearly visible to Sydney until five mile or less away.

“So Fritz, did Kormoran run into the sun to buy time? Wouldn’t this also raise Sydney’s suspicions?”

“Jawohl, but zee ‘harmlos’ Kormoran also radios a distress signal: ‘being pursued by possible raider.’ ”

“Some irony, Fritz!” 

He beams smugly.

Importantly, later inquiry records confirmed that no other radio signals were heard by other stations at sea or ashore. Even Kormoran’s distress signal ruse was not fully understood, though repeated. And Fritz emphasized that Sydney did not break wartime radio silence to reassure the unidentified merchant. 

Eventually Kormoran’s deliberately fumbled flags identify her as Straat Malakka. Sydney signals for Straat Malakka’s secret callsign, which Detmers always claimed Kormoran never had. Fritz agrees, as recorded in his log. Sydney’s demand is the moment of truth that both Fritz and Detmers knew would always come. At some point during the time it takes Sydney to close from five mile to one mile Kormoran must surrender, or attack.

Kormoran’s battle plan anticipated at this decisive moment Sydney would be some miles astern, with her forward firing advantage over longer distance. Kormoran would only have the benefit of surprise, and confidence in Fritz’ well-rehearsed tactics – to zig-zag her port and starboard guns to bear on Sydney’s bridge. But this expected scenario did not materialize. 

Instead Sydney sails abeam onto a parallel course about one mile away. Why? Just Kormoran’s lucky day? Fritz merely maintains this observation is accurate, just as he logged. Damage to the Sydney wreck eventually supports this crucial point. Sydney is a sitting duck.

The so-called Straat Malakka is abeam, below the trajectory of Sydney’s shortest gun range. Sydney has relinquished her upper hand – the capability to fire a broadside salvo at distance – it would now lob over the freighter. Yet Sydney is within Kormoran’s point-blank aim. In that interminable moment, Sydney, being side-on, surely compares Kormoran’s disguised silhouette with that documented for Straat Malakka. Why isn’t Sydney alarmed at the disparity? Fritz seems evasive, mumbling “… differenz nicht so big.”

Fritz was well aware that when Sydney first sights a distant unknown ship, Sydney can launch her Walrus aircraft to assist identification. Fritz’ log recorded that Sydney prepared for launch when 20 or so miles away, but apparently canceled. Why? From that distance the Walrus could have launched and quickly identified the unknown ship as a raider. There were mines and armaments stored on Kormoran’s deck – a dead give-away.

Fritz noted that Detmers discounted this threat because launching the Walrus was not customary in Australian waters, given the lower threat level, launch delays incurred, and the logistic difficulties of retrieval. Admittedly no raider had been encountered by a warship off the Australian coast since the outbreak of war. Sydney probably expected an uneventful shake-down patrol. Nevertheless, I felt Fritz discounted a significant risk for Kormoran. So I blurt my reservations.

“Fritz, I can just accept Kormoran taking the calculated Walrus risk. And Sydney receiving the unidentified freighter's radioed distress ruse as adequate explanation for a friendly freighter running into the sunset. Plus, I get Sydney not breaking radio silence to reassure the freighter. But why wouldn’t

Sydney remain, say, five mile safely astern of this Straat Malakka, and demand conclusive identification by flags – including her secret callsign? Sydney could still run down the freighter if need be, well before sunset.”

Fritz’ log reinforces Detmers’ published admission that Kormoran had a comprehensive plan for an expected engagement with Sydney. But how could Kormoran reasonably gamble on Sydney coming closer than five mile, without first receiving and believing Straat Malakka's full identification? No matter how much Kormoran fumbles its flags, without the secret callsign, she would remain heavily outgunned at a distance and at a speed disadvantage. Surely Kormoran could never logically expect Sydney to close to, say, one mile, even to check a still suspect Straat Malakka's silhouette side-on?

“Fritz, no matter what you wrote, and now say, Sydney’s suspicions should have been raised by your clumsy flagging when she was five mile astern of you. And then, at the latest, Sydney should have gone to battle stations before approaching so-called Straat Malakka side-on to verify its silhouette. Instead Sydney closes from five to one mile, apparently persuaded she is hailing the real Straat Malakka. Why?”

“Bravo, Dr Ivor. Logik, logik, ja?” Fritz strikes a match and puffs. “Der gruß, Ivor, mein freund.”

“The what, please?”

“The greeting, Ivor, my friend. The greeting explains.”

“What greeting?”

The passage in Fritz’ logbuch I found most difficult to understand outlines a plan of radio communication in the event Kormoran’s disguise is challenged by Sydney. Fritz noted Kormoran’s pre-arranged response invokes a previously undisclosed familiarity with Sydney's bridge officer personnel. Detmers’ published accounts do not mention any acquaintance with Sydney’s personnel. Fritz intimated Kormoran’s planned sociability is intended to bolster her guise as Straat Malakka. But how? Is this ‘der gruß?’

“Fritz, your log outlines a planned radio response if Sydney challenges your Straat Malakka disguise. We know Kormoran previously transmitted the bogus distress signal on sighting Sydney some 20 mile away. Did Detmers have another radio communication ace up his sleeve? Did your Straat Malakka transmit it while Sydney was getting closer?”

“Ach! So now I confess zee rest, jung Ivor; why Sydney vas abeam one mile away, und not at battle stations.” Fritz shifts in his seat and tends his pipe. Finally he relates a compelling anecdote about ‘der gruß.’

Apparently, Kormoran's radio-officer personally knew the RO on the real Straat Malakka. In pre-war days this RO was a Dutch colleague, even a chum. And before the War he married the sister of the eventual British Commander of HMAS Sydney. 

“What?” I implore Fritz for details. 

“Ja, zee real Straat Malakka RO is husband of zee sister of ein Britisch Marineoffizier. Das officer becomes second in command to Sydney’s new Captain. So our Straat Malakka can pretend our RO is, how you say, brother of Sydney’s First officer, zee aktuell Commander.”

“Fritz, fair dinkum? Nah, that’s too incredible!”

Carried away, Fritz enthuses that Detmers, on hearing this fraternal news, danced a jig. Detmers could presume the married sister in Holland would be out of touch with her brother, thanks to the War. Could Kormoran, disguised as Straat Malakka, actually utilise this familiarity in the event of an identification challenge from Sydney? Could ‘der gruß’ dupe Sydney into accepting Kormoran as Straat Malakka?

“So Fritz, did Kormoran’s RO, pretending to be Straat Malakka’s, announce himself as the brother-in-law of Sydney's First officer?”

Fritz shuffles apologetically.

“Wohl, Kapitän Detmers earlier ordered our RO to script a convincing message – ‘der gruß.’ I listened to our RO rehearse zee personal lines from his ‘wife’ to her ‘brother,’ Sydney's No.1.”

I’m astounded. My mind whirls. Of course Sydney's Commander would be delighted to hear from his brother-in-law, the one serving as radio-officer on the real Straat Malakka. Sydney is deluded into believing Kormoran is Straat Malakka and approaches alongside in friendly greeting. The rest is history.

But was Kormoran’s planned ‘greeting’ ever conveyed to Sydney? I had previously researched the Kormoran-Sydney radio transmission records. Only snippets were overheard by other stations at sea or on land. They appeared to come from a single ship, and were probably the repeated ‘distress’ call from the pretend Straat Malakka. If there was also any informal chit-chat from one ship to another, the banter would almost certainly not be logged. 

“Fritz, there’s no record of radio transmissions, other than Kormoran’s distress ruse. I realise additional chatter – the ‘greeting’ – is unlikely to be recorded. Is there any evidence it was delivered?”

“Ve radio on low power vhen ship to ship, so not overheard. Crew also practised semaphore flagging ‘der gruß.’ Und ve can use Morse signal lamp. Sydney’s signaler vould keep written record.”

“No use at the bottom of the ocean, Fritz.”

Even after the wrecks were located in 2008 the logs from both ships were never retrieved. So the questions remain.

Was Kormoran’s personal greeting ever delivered to Sydney? If so, did it help persuade Sydney to approach Straat Malakka a.k.a. Kormoran as an innocent rather than a suspicious vessel? Indeed, was ‘der gruß’ the final straw of disguise that fooled Sydney into accepting Kormoran as the friendly Straat Malakka? And after the War would Detmers or his loyal crew of fellow POWs ever reveal the ace up their sleeve, especially as ‘der gruß’ could be considered less than honourable warfare?

--_-_--

I firmly believe Fritz’ revelations behind the sinking of Sydney. But in exchange for his frank admissions I agreed not to divulge them while he lived. At that time Fritz’ story did not contradict Detmers’ published account, though Fritz’ backstory would certainly undermine Detmers’. But as the wrecks had not yet been found, Fritz’ story would only further public speculation. 

The controversy during the 1980’s was already outlandish. One book alleged a Japanese submarine sank Sydney, just weeks before Japan entered the War at Pearl Harbor. And this sub supposedly ensured no Sydney survivors. Without the evidence from the wrecks that eventually backed Fritz’ log, his ‘der gruß’ story would seem thinner than Japanese involvement. Also the 1998 inquiry did not invite submissions; it only sought to quash myths and rumours. Any attempt at that stage to introduce fresh speculation based on Fritz’ account seemed pointless. I decided to keep my powder dry.

By the time the Cole inquiry began in 2008, after the wrecks were found, Fritz had died. All the officers and crew of Kormoran were reportedly dead. My second-hand account of Fritz’ story behind the sinking of Sydney was officially dismissed. The authorities considered Fritz merely a stowaway on the Duntroon during my childhood voyage. He was labelled an odious impersonator of Oberleutnant Fritz Skeries, the decorated gunnery officer on the German raider, HSK Kormoran. 

The official line remains: the ‘real’ Oberleutnant Skeries, along with Kapitän Detmers and the other officers, were transported in 1942 via Duntroon to Dhurringile POW camp in Victoria. And from there all the surviving Kormoran crew, including Oberleutnant Fritz Skeries were repatriated to Germany in 1947. Thus the Cole inquiry opened the door to Fritz’ story, only to slam it in his face. 

The logbook of Oberleutnant Fritz Skeries, which I acquired on Duntroon, is however considered genuine; it was the only logbook not found on the Kormoran officers, including Detmers, while interned as POWs. The last confiscated logbook belonged to the Kormoran’s radio officer, Oberleutnant Von Malapert. It was only secured in 1947 during his repatriation. Yet by the time the Cole inquiry started in 2008, besides Fritz’ logbook, two of the other Kormoran officers' logbooks had gone missing – Detmers' and his radio officer's. How curious.

What if Von Malapert's missing logbook were available to the Cole inquiry Might it have confirmed the existence of ‘der gruß,’ thereby bolstering Fritz’ account? Instead the supplementary encoded journal entries of ‘impersonator’ Fritz were officially and comprehensively dismissed, despite them being completed in isolation on the Duntroon; no matter they matched evidence and testimony from Kormoran’s officers tabled at the inquiry. 

The damning Cole inquiry authoritatively rejected Fritz’ journal, especially the ‘dubious’ radio greeting he detailed. To me Fritz’ unsubstantiated speculation is more credible than all the less plausible explanations for Australia’s worst maritime disaster – the unfathomable sinking of the battleship Sydney with all 645 hands by the raider Kormoran camouflaged as the freighter Straat Malakka. 

Yet, to this day Sydney retains sole responsibility for her own demise. Or rather, the Captain of her 645 crew still shoulders the entire blame. But what about her Commander? Did he too readily reciprocate an unsolicited personal greeting from a still not definitely identified freighter, one possibly disguised as a raider?

Information warfare is not just a by-product of the computer age. ‘Intelligence’ is always advantageous in war, as elsewhere. In Kormoran’s case, did personal information gathered pre-war about Sydney’s future Commander seed her demise? If so, is anyone really to blame? 

Fritz obviously felt some guilt from Kormoran’s surprise underdog victory, and grappled with the full secretive nature of her winning strategy for years after. But he wouldn’t play the blame game.

“Zhere are only gerwinner und loser, nein verdammt.”

I remember the day my parents and I disembarked the Duntroon. Nurse Flo is waving from the deck above the gangway. I can still see her lips mouthing the saying she and Mac drilled into me about Fritz the stowaway, ‘Loose Lips Sink Ships.’

--oOOo--