Stars & Stripes Triumphant by Harry Harrison Page A

made a wide turn until she was running close to the Parker Cook and matching her course and speed. An officer on her bridge appeared with a megaphone.
    "Heave to," he called out. "We wish to examine your papers."
    "Damn their eyes!" Captain Bulloch said. "Let me have the megaphone." He stalked over to the rail and shouted his angry reply.
    "This is the United States ship Parker Cook sailing on the high seas. You have no jurisdiction here..."
    His answer was not long in coming. Even as he finished speaking the bow cannon on the warship blossomed with fire and a column of water leaped high some yards ahead of the bow.
    "Heave to."
    The captain had no choice. Once the sails were lowered, the ship lost way, wallowing in the waves. A boat was quickly and efficiently lowered from the warship. The two vessels were close enough for Captain Bulloch to read the ship's name.
    "HMS Devastation. Stupid name."
    The Americans could only look on numbly as the boat approached. A uniformed officer—followed by six armed marines—climbed to the deck to face the angry captain.
    "This is piracy! You have no right—"
    "The right of force majeure," the officer said disdainfully, waving toward the heavily armed warship. "I will now examine your ship's papers."
    "You shall not!"
    "What is your cargo?" The officer offhandedly loosened his sword in its scabbard as he spoke; this was not lost on the captain.
    "Cotton," he said. "American cotton on its way to Germany, and no concern of yours."
    "I beg to differ. If you were aware of world affairs, you would know that due to unfair trading practices, Great Britain has banned the sale of American cotton to Germany and France. Your cargo is therefore declared contraband and will be seized and taken to a British port."
    "I must protest!"
    "So noted. Now order your crew on deck. A prize crew will man this ship and take her into port."
    Captain Bulloch cursed impotently. He was no longer a happy man.

    The fine weather petered out as one went north; the Midlands glistened under a steady, drumming rain; Scotland as well. But Thomas McGrath and Paddy McDermott walked out into the teeming Glasgow rain with immense feelings of relief. The train trip from Birmingham had been long, slow, and almost unbearably tense. McGrath, with his Cockney accent, had bought the two third-class tickets and they had boarded the train just as it was leaving. They had sat in silence all the way to Scotland, fearful that their Irish voices would arouse suspicion. The Irish were looked at with distrust in Great Britain these days.
    "You say you've been here before, Paddy?" McGrath asked.
    "Aye, for a year, after I came over from Belfast."
    "Many Irish here?"
    "For sure. But not our kind."
    "Proddies?"
    "To a man."
    "Could you pass as one?"
    "Jayzus! Why would I want to do a thing like that?"
    "Well, you sound like one, right enough."
    "To you mebbe. But as soon as they heard my name and where I lived, they would know right enough I'm a Taigh."
    "What if you gave them a different name, a different address?"
    "Well—might work. But not for long."
    "It doesn't have to be for long. We have to find an Irish bar near the fishing ships. They'll be going out to sea, fishing the same grounds as the Irish do. We've got to find a way to use that contact, get you, or a message, across to the other side. Say something about a death in the family, a funeral you have to attend, anything. Offer them money."
    "And where would I get the brass? We're that skint. Cosh someone mebbe?"
    "If it comes to that, why not?" McGrath said grimly. "Word about the concentration camps has got to reach Ireland."
    Through the ceaseless rain the lights of a pub could be seen ahead, beside the Clyde. Heads down, they went toward it. Paddy glanced up at the signboard above the front entrance.
    "McCutcheon's," he said. "I've been here. It's about as Irish as you can get."
    "I hope so," McGrath said, his voice betraying a native suspicion. "But let me talk until we are