The bodies would be placed in one of the hundred sites that the state had excavated for such necessities. No record would be forwarded. Reports of the missing would simply be ignored. He smiled as he thought how much more progressive, sanitary, and civilized 1933 was compared to 1307.
Confession—what confession? he thought. Sin—what sin? God—God is dead.
All he had to do was to devise a plan and then control the plan. He would tell them half, but only half or maybe less, but not more; he would need them to complete the plan all the while thinking that he was their faithful minion.
— – —
There were no markings to indicate that these rooms were the Office of Strategic Services of the United States of America—the spy agency of the American Armed Forces.
The large wall calendar on the wall of the OSS in London read Saturday, January 13, 1944, as the U.S. intelligence officers deliberated over grainy photographic enlargements.
“I just do not understand this,” Larry said.
“I wonder what they are up to,” Charles replied, equally bewildered by what he saw.
Charles and Larry worked for the OSS as civilian experts.
“Submarines. Three gigantic submarines. Why waste manpower and material on the construction of three oversize U-Boats?” Charles questioned Larry and himself.
Larry answered, “The Atlantic is lost, but, you know, they look more like cargo ships than subs. And that makes even less sense. What is so important that Hitler and his goons are at it all day and all night? And in such a secured area that the crazy man himself could not enter.”
“The 8th Air Force won’t waste a raid on it. I’ve talked to superior officers and they deem it madness on their part and worthless on our part. One general called them Hitler’s sausages.” Charles looked upon the photographs and then continued talking. “You know, Larry, these U-Boats are being loaded with supplies—look. New snorkel design, new shape and outsides. These, I bet, are transports. These U-Boats are going to be underwater trucks. It does not make sense, though. I’ll be.”
“Yeah, but a U-Boat here or a U-Boat there, regardless of how big, will not make a difference now. I’ll be home in time see the flowers in my garden bloom. So, if some crazy krauts want to dream about a new super weapon—it is fine with me. Let them burn their resources and waste their time and materials. The more they waste, the sooner I’ll be going home. But I must say that those U-Boats look like they are well-made.”
— – —
The calendar on his desk read Saturday, January 13, 1944, as he put his hand upon the page and turned it for, after all, it was just past midnight and, after all, he had to keep order.
“Herr Schliemann.”
The General Officer addressed him.
“Yes,” Herr Schliemann responded without looking up from his desk.
“Herr Schliemann, all is ready,” the General declared.
Behind the General, a man was standing without any sort of regalia, but with military bearing.
“I am—”
Herr Schliemann cut him off.
“I know who you are. There is no need for introductions or formalities.”
He handed the General Officer a leather case and the General Officer handed the case to Herr Schliemann.
“Herr Schliemann, this is the most important package of the Reich and maybe the most important package in the world...”
The unannounced man spoke with pride and continued talking. But Herr Schliemann didn’t listen; it didn’t matter. He thought about his next move. I will be soon on my way to obtain the most important item—you fool.
The unannounced man finished, “...The pure blood of the faithful of today and tomorrow is in your hands now, Herr Schliemann.”
Herr Schliemann with great formality accepted the package and with great formality returned the salutes of the General Officer and the unnamed man.
Blood of the faithful. It is just blood. No different than the hundred millions of other units of blood that have been plundered from the unfaithful. Fools, Herr Schliemann thought to himself.
You can make a liar believe a lie. You just have to tell a bigger lie and say it all the time. The best liars do not think they can be fooled by a lie but that was the truth of the lie. Herr Schliemann knew that the more one lied, the more a liar believed any lie.
He had created a lie and applied the lie to their vanity and now his plan was coming to completion. Blood of the faithful—it was all he could do to keep from laughing out loud. But, there was no time to waste. He had to finish the last small tasks before putting in motion the next aspect of his plan.
Locking the door after the meeting, Herr Schliemann sat down and fell into a comfortable slouch at his desk. It had taken over eleven years. Eleven years of twenty-hour days, eleven years of dusty roads and market places, eleven years of no human relationships, and eleven years of lying and lying—but it was going to be worth it very soon.
He had obtained what was needed. He had one very ancient manuscript in the form of what everyone assumed was just a bit of antiquity from an Arab art dealer. The Arab dealer was shrewd and thought that he was getting something for nothing, but Herr Schliemann knew that he himself was the one giving almost nothing for something. The scroll was of tarnished silver when he had obtained it, and he would have passed up the opportunity to purchase it if it had not been for what was remaining on the partial icon.
The second manuscript was obtained by theft and then murder. He did not wish to kill his hired thief, but the thief had engaged in the time-honored creed of ‘no honor among thieves.’ Herr Schliemann then had to enact his creed of ‘dead men tell no tales.’
But now, the very ancient scroll was his, and now it and the other were beyond worth, and he had arranged the ‘how’ of disposal. He knew the ‘why,’ and soon others—all others—would know the ‘why’ also. Yes, after eleven years the end was going to justify all his squalid, miserable, and wretched means.
Yes, it was time for a rest. He had a few moments now to catch up after eleven years of exhaustion.
“Herr Schliemann, you must hurry to your ship. The allies will be here soon. It seems a massive air attack is on the way,” a dutiful voice urged.
“Is the ship in complete readiness?”
“Nein!”
What is another night without sleep? Herr Schliemann thought to himself.
— – —
As he changed the calendar on the wall of the OSS office to Sunday, February 20, 1944, Larry spoke to Charles in businesslike fashion while walking away from the ‘in’ box by the code machine.
“Well, the second of those three giant U-Boats is destroyed,” Larry said.
“Operation Argument, Big Week, is starting and you are talking about a U-Boat.” Charles was confused
Larry continued, “Yeah, it just bothers me. Incomplete business—and all that stuff. I do not like incompleteness. We got one in January on a bombing raid and now this one has floundered in the Atlantic and gone down. The third was damaged—how bad we do not know, and where it is we do not know. It’s incomplete.”
Charles was silent. He was not interested in old news today.
Larry continued his own conversation, but he did not pick up on Charles’ indifference to his topic. “I guess we won’t know until after the war what these U-Boats were about, if then. Why? Why all the war effort to produce these ships is what I do not understand.”
Wanting to silence Larry, Charles began to speak. “Look, we know for a fact that two of the three are destroyed. The third was damaged and in all likelihood rests on the bottom, having gone down silently with all hands. Good guys three, bad guys zero—we win by a shutout. In six months everyone will know the ‘Nutzies’ secrets, and in a year no one will care.”
“You may be correct,” Larry said, “but I have a feeling that it is not a ‘three to nothing’ shutout. I think they have another ‘at bat’ in this game. And, if not in this game, then in the one after this
one. I have a feeling they are going to force a squeeze at the plate. Incomplete—it is just incomplete.
“I didn’t think of it at the time because there was so much going on in preparation for the big week, but I wonder now, come to think of it, if that third U-boat was the U-boat that was seen off the coast of Ireland, a while back.” Larry kept trying to puzzle it out.
“May have been, but so what? Just some Nazi rats running for the last open rat-hole, hoping to escape,” Charles said.
“Yeah, maybe that is it, but I think there is something else. I wish I knew what it was.”
Larry shook his head in despair.
— – —
At the same time under the Atlantic, another conversation was taking place between the captain of the U-Boat and Herr Schliemann.
“I agree with you, Herr Schliemann, that this war is lost. Too many Russians and too much American steel doomed us.” The Captain’s voice was stoic, military fashion.
Herr Schliemann agreed, “That, of course, and also very bad management of the war itself by Herr Hitler, idiotic paper-pushers, and psychopathic weak-willed underlings is what doomed the war effort, captain.”
“Herr Schliemann!” The Captain was offended by the open criticism of the Reich.
“Dear Captain, we are under the Atlantic, and the Americans and Russians are going to make certain that you never see those people again. Once we get past the Atlantic narrows between Africa and Brazil, all will be better.”
The Captain was silent for a moment considering Schliemann’s words and choosing his own carefully. “Herr Schliemann, as I understand the orders, I am to enter the Pacific Ocean by going around the Cape of Good Hope. That is all that I know. If the war is lost—why?”
Herr Schliemann began, “There is no hope for Germany. The war will be over by the spring or summer at the latest, depending only on the will of the Americans and Russians—how many Germans they are willing to kill and how many Germans are willing to be killed. That is the situation in Europe.
“On the other hand, the war has some time to go in the Pacific, maybe a year or two, depending on how many Japanese are willing to die. Of course, it could end very soon if the Americans develop a war-ending super-weapon. We almost had one.
“Barring a sudden end to the war, this U-Boat will land on one of the islands that the Americans have by-passed. We have enough food and fuel to reach our destination and, once there, our noble Asian allies will provide me—excuse me, provide us—with the supplies that are needed.”
“I do not understand the purpose of it all, Herr Schliemann.”
“We will trade this ship for what we need.”
“Herr Schliemann, this is property of the Fatherland.”
“Herr Captain, the only Fatherland is what is on this ship, now.”
“But what if the allies capture it, Herr Schliemann?”
Schliemann put his argument before the captain. “What would it matter? They cannot use it to kill an already dead people. And, once they loot Berlin, they are going to find all our secrets.”
“I shall scuttle it,” the Captain said in a moment of pride.
“No, Herr Captain. This ship is useful only as a fool’s card. The Japanese will think that this ship is their super weapon that will deliver victory to the Emperor—it won’t, of course, and in exchange, I—excuse me again, we—can make new and better plans. Yes, Herr Captain.”
The Captain smiled. The very thought of another war in another year was joyful. He thought to himself, war when I was fifteen, war when I am thirty-five, and the third war in which Germany was destined to be victorious and he would only be fifty-five years of age. It was a most pleasing thought. He smiled.
Herr Schliemann also smiled. The captain had believed the lie. The thought of his personal victory made him feel like a little boy at Christmas. But now there was no Christmas, and he felt even happier. On the navigation chart, he saw the island. The island was at hand, It was at hand. What could go wrong with his perfect plan, now? He would rest now in his victory.
— – —
The calendar in the office of the OSS was packed up for transport to Washington, D.C., and the Pentagon Building, USA, as two messages came from the machines.
“Atomic bomb. Hiroshima. Success.” Charles read the message and passed it to Larry. They both nodded.
“I am going to pack up and go home,” Charles declared.
“London?” was Larry’s question.
“No, home,” Charles replied.
The second message was: “USS Vengeance. Encounters and attacks unidentified submarine. Sinks same.”
Charles, in his haste to pack up, put the first message on top of the second message, never having read the second message, and tossed them away. “War’s over, Larry,” he said.
“Yes. They’ll have to sign now. I just wish I knew what happened to that last U-Boat. Incomplete, just incomplete.”
2
Flying out of the South Pacific back to the States, I leaned my head on the back-rest unavoidably close to the woman in the seat beside me.
“Wishing you were back?” she asked.
It was just a whisper, but it hollered in my head.
“Back? Never left.”
She wanted to say something, but all that came out was one of those confused looks. And then, “I mean—was the vacation really that good that you are sorry to be going home?”
She did not understand. She imagined that I had gone to the South Pacific for fun in the sun and the surf.
“You do not understand, miss. I cannot go home because I have no home.”
I knew that this fine lady was unable to understand that a person could be without a home. I was so very sure that this lady was from a fine, upright, and loving home.
“No... home?” She was unsure if she had asked a question, made a declarative statement, or if she had embarrassed me. There was no way that this fine lady could embarrass me.
“I have no home. Rather, I should say that I have no family house. The places of my past, houses or apartments, are gone. You know, ashes to ashes or, in the case of my life, bricks to land-fills.”
In her eyes you could see her fine home now and realize that all her fine homes were still upon the face of the earth.
She wanted to say something sincere and gracious but sometimes silence is the best voice and this fine lady was silent before me.
I wanted to give her some comfort, for I could see that she had fallen into despair. Me, I was going to give comfort. Me, all I could do was appreciate the ironic spin of circumstance.
“Do you wish me to tell you a story? It is a cheerful story but a sad story also.” I asked but with a warning.
She answered with her eyes and then with her mouth, “Yes.”
I knew where to begin.
I looked down to the surface of the sea—it was thirty-five thousand feet below me and that is where my story began. From the surface to the Deep, it was thirty-five thousand feet—and that is where my story ends. My story was a vertical line. Some life stories are lines of time. Some life stories are lines on a map. My story is an axis line from a wave crest to the abysmal bottom.
The plane engines resounded with checked power and hummed magnificently but as I began, the engines sounded no more.
“This is a very true story.” I told her this so she would be cued into belief. “You must understand that everything I am going to tell you is true for if you do not believe each word then my soul is perjured. Will you believe each word? The truth of it all is greater than the greatest imagined sea tale. If you cannot believe in such greatness, I will cease now and we will live nicely in our pasts and separate in peace and my soul will not be perjured.”
Her eyes, part of the silent human soul, were saying yes. but the tongue was speechless for a moment. Then her eyes screamed yes and her tongue followed in a fine voice.
“Yes, I will believe each word and understand the greatness of your story.”
I recalled it so finely, the first days of my manhood in Cleveland, Ohio. It was a bitter winter with feet of snow.
“The river is not going to catch on fire today,” Steve Pearson told me.
Steve was an English teacher. I was a science teacher. Steve was from Cleveland and I was not from Cleveland but we had ended up in the same graduate teaching program at the same university; we had ended up at the same junior high school; and now we had ended up at the same lunch table eating the same lunch food.
“The hawk is out today.” Steve said and looked out at the storm.
Yes, the hawk was flying. I never was much of a bird watcher but this hawk was unavoidable in my sight line.
“One day, one day soon, I’m gonna be on my island. Cleveland and winter will be so long gone that they will not even be a memory,” I said.
I looked onto 55th Street and fantasized that the snow was white sand.
Steve shook his head. “You and your dream island. You see old man Vargas over there? In forty years we will be him.”
I looked over at old man Vargas. Mr. Vargas could have passed for a petrified tree root except that tree roots do not chain-smoke Lucky Strike cigarettes.
“Not me—this time next year it will just be you and old man Vargas.”
“You will be back, and you and I will be buying old man Vargas’ lunch,” Steve replied.
Vargas was a gambler but it was more like Vargas went to the track and threw his money away. He got me and Steve to buy his lunch with the promise of repayment but he never paid his debts.
The Last Island Page 2