An Honorable German

by Charles L. McCain

  He would have given you a receipt for anything he was obliged to confiscate so your belongings could be returned to you when we made port. The sailor responsible for this outrage will be found and punished.” He slammed his fist on the desk. “Punished most severely.” Max repeated all of this in English for Carruthers, then Hauer gave a slight bow of his head, signifying the interview was over. “Return after escorting Captain Carruthers to the deck, Oberleutnant.”

  “Jawohl, Herr Kapitän.”

  Max returned as slowly as he could to Hauer’s cabin, knowing that he was about to receive the worst dressing-down of his career. He rapped, slipped into the cabin, and found Hauer standing with his back to the door, hands clasped behind him. The captain’s uniform was immaculate, his steward saw to that. Like Felix, the captain was a Prussian—but a real Prussian, like Max. His cabin reflected it. A set of books on navigation and seamanship stood on a shelf, neat as a line of grenadiers. There were no unruly papers on his desktop; all were filed away. A water glass scrubbed clean as an angel stood near the edge of the desk on a perfectly starched napkin, along with three tablets of bicarbonate of soda, a small pitcher of water, and a silver spoon polished into gleaming submission. There were two pictures on the bulkhead—one of the Kaiser, one of Admiral Tirpitz—and neither dared to be off center. Max was sure he could have bounced a five-mark coin off the bunk, so tightly were the sheets folded.

  Until this moment, Max had not attracted the captain’s fury, though once he had come close. One morning, no more than a week after coming aboard Meteor, Max had sat in a deck chair during his off-duty hours, rereading The Treasure of Silver Lake, his favorite Karl May novel. He had just reached the end of a chapter when Hauer happened by. He caught Max folding down the right corner of the page instead of using a bookmark and stopped short. “Oberleutnant!” the captain shouted.

  Max bolted out from his chair and stood at wooden attention.

  Hauer stepped up to face him at less than half a meter. “Books should never be treated with such disrespect, Oberleutnant. Never crease a page or put a mark in a book—not on my ship, not anywhere. Books are all that separate us from the apes. Do you understand? I should never wish to see such behavior again.”

  “Jawohl, Herr Kapitän,” Max barked obediently, thinking then, as he would later do on many occasions, that Captain Hauer was truly a bastard.

  Now Max stood quietly at attention, knowing Hauer would eventually take notice of him. At length the captain turned and stared at him for a very long moment. “Oberleutnant Brekendorf, you are a disgrace to the service and I shall have no choice but to bring your appalling dereliction of duty to the attention of the Naval War Staff when I submit my final report. That you, a trained and experienced regular officer, should so fail in your duty by forgetting, forgetting, your explicit standing orders to search prisoners is so shocking to me I am speechless!” Hauer banged the table with his fist. “I am speechless! Speechless!” Then be quiet, Max thought. “But the situation aboard this ship, which you made infinitely worse by your reprehensible dereliction of duty, the situation is so delicate that I have no choice but to continue to rely on you and I will pray to Almighty God that you remember your duty in the brief period of time you have left in the navy. Consider yourself fortunate that I am not going to confine you to the brig.”

  Hauer looked away from Max and said nothing for a few minutes, letting the curtain fall on act one. Then he began to speak, acting as if nothing had been said heretofore. “There are three regular naval officers on this ship. Three. Only three. Before you and Leutnant Falkenheyn came aboard, there was only me. That’s why the two of you were sent here at such great risk—the navy didn’t smuggle you out of Buenos Aires for a holiday. I require officers I can rely on implicitly.”

  Hauer stared at him. Max didn’t flinch. He feared one word from him would push the captain over the edge. It wasn’t only the crew who were in need of leave. Max wanted to suggest that Hauer go ahead and drink the bicarbonate of soda.

  “Would you shoot someone if I ordered you to?”

  “Jawohl, Herr Kapitän.”

  “A German?”

  Max hesitated.

  “A simple question, Oberleutnant Brekendorf! Answer. Would you shoot a German sailor engaged in mutiny aboard a German man-o’-war in a time of war?”

  “Jawohl, Herr Kapitän.”

  Around them the ship rolled slightly in the seaway. With all of her wooden paneling and wooden doors from her days in the passenger trade, she creaked like an old house as she steamed. The captain said, “I will announce to the crew that the defaulters have twenty-four hours to turn themselves in. If they do not—and I do not expect they shall—I will order you and Leutnant Falkenheyn to search the crew quarters. Some of the troublemakers on board may resist this. You will have me and a party of armed officers with you…” Hauer paused. “I asked for the best crew they could give me and they cleaned out the brig, thinking I’d be sunk in a fortnight.” He glanced around his cabin. “I will not have a mutiny on my ship, do you understand? I will not!”

  Max continued to stand at rigid attention.

  “At ease, Oberleutnant,” the captain said, fatigue in his voice. He pulled a key from his pocket and opened a cabinet next to his desk, from which he withdrew two pistols in polished leather holsters. “One for you and one for Leutnant Falkenheyn. I will have one as well. The guard contingent will have truncheons. Questions?”

  Max spoke with caution. To question the captain’s orders directly could be taken as mutiny itself. “Must it come to this, Herr Kapitän?”

  Hauer stared him down. “Thirteen months at sea. No women.

  No leave. Short rations. Not enough alcohol. The crew becomes a tinderbox. One spark and they will ignite. I saw it at Kiel in 1918. One spark and a whole damn crew became Bolsheviks, Red Bolsheviks—actually killed the first officer. They spat on me—spat on me! But not on my ship. There will not be mutiny on my ship!”

  Max came to attention. “At your command, Herr Kapitän.”

  “I will not have prisoners mistreated under my watch. Just as there are rules in peacetime, there are rules in war. The men who have violated those rules will be found and discipline will be restored.” Hauer emphasized the last word by striking the desk again. “You are dismissed.”

  Max saluted and took his leave.

  Over dinner, he spoke to Dieter about this very unpleasant encounter with the captain. As usual, Dieter was unfazed. “First, El Maximo, don’t worry about what Hauer will say about you. Do you think the Naval War Staff is going to give any credence to what the man says? He’s mad as a March hare. As to the thieves who took the binoculars, a show of force and the shits will give way,” he said. They were eating blood sausage and bread—a heavy meal to stomach in the heat of the Indian Ocean—and drinking Sapporo beer, which they couldn’t abide. Watered-down horse piss mixed with medicinal alcohol would taste better, but they didn’t have any of that. All they had was the Sapporo. Dieter upended his bottle, then sat back. “I’ve seen this sort of thing before. Nothing to it.”

  Max had known Dieter since April of 1933, when they had begun their first year as Seekadetten. They were crewkameraden, had drilled together, furled sails together, been aboard the training cruiser Emden together, exploring together the various American cities Emden visited from New York to New Orleans to San Diego. They had learned navigation together, gotten drunk together, served aboard Graf Spee together, gotten stuck in Argentina together, and finally come here. Max looked at his friend.

  “Now exactly when and where have you seen this kind of thing before?”

  “Well, I haven’t, El Maximo, but I can’t worry about it. Cigarette?”

  That night, in his bunk, Max worried about it. Just shoot whomever the captain pointed out? Mutiny was a serious crime—a capital offense in any navy, and rightly so—but a sailor pinching a pair of binoculars did not constitute a Bolshevik revolt. A certain tension was evident throughout the ship:
furtive looks, muttered curses, a hand slow to salute. But there was hardly an open rebellion. Meteor did have more than her share of brig rats, but to shoot a German sailor in cold blood?

  By the twenty-four-hour mark, an air of expectation hung over the ship. Crewmen stopped working and even the helmsman became inattentive and had to be reprimanded by the watch officer. Captain Hauer, in full dress uniform, pistol holstered, stood on the main deck at parade rest, waiting for the binoculars and whiskey to be returned. The deadline expired. Five minutes went by. Then ten. Time moved slowly as it always did when one wanted it to move faster. Thirty minutes past the deadline, he called for the guard. Max and Dieter, also with holstered pistols, led four reliable men onto the deck. Each of the four had a truncheon. Max wanted to say something, anything, that might head off this confrontation, but the look on Hauer’s face did not suggest an openness to compromise.

  Hauer led the way belowdecks, striding into the crew quarters. Sailors crowded around, some menacing, many fearful. But they presented themselves in solidarity as a group. Crowded together in this heat, sweat dripped from the men. Max felt himself sweating through his uniform.

  Hauer pushed through the men to a row of lockers. “Open it,” he said, pointing to the first locker.

  No one moved.

  The captain turned to one of the junior petty officers. “What kind of German sailor are you? Call these men to attention.”

  The petty officer hesitated, then stepped forward and bellowed, “Achtung!”

  The response varied; a handful snapped to, but without conviction. The rest stood as they were.

  “You.” Hauer jabbed his finger at one of the older seamen—Harslager, who sported a pale knife scar across his left cheek.

  “Which is your locker?”

  “Nine.”

  Max could see the captain’s nostrils flare at the omission of “Herr Kapitän.” Harslager’s own face was tight and defiant, though his hands nervously grasped and ungrasped the seams of his trousers.

  “Open it!”

  Harslager stood his ground. Max wondered what had happened to the man who gave him that scar.

  “Open it now!” the captain shouted.

  Nothing.

  “Oberleutnant.”

  “Ja, Herr Kapitän?”

  “Cover this man with your pistol.”

  Max pulled the pistol from its holster and pointed it at Harslager’s belly. The wooden grip was damp in his hand from sweat.

  “I will count to five,” Hauer said, speaking slowly to Harslager. “If you do not open the locker, I will order the Oberleutnant to shoot you. He is a regular naval officer and understands what it means to obey orders.”

  Max could see the sailors staring at him. Most had gone white in the face. Harslager looked down at the deck.

  “One.”

  No one moved. No one even seemed to breathe—as if the air itself had been sucked from the room.

  “Two!”

  Max pulled the Luger’s slide back, forcing a shell into the breech, the sound loud and metallic.

  “Three.”

  Harslager looked up and stared Max straight in the eye.

  “Four.”

  Sweat beaded on Max’s forehead and ran down his chin.

  “Five!”

  Harslager stayed motionless. Max’s finger curled around the trigger.

  “Fire!” Hauer yelled.

  Slowly Max lowered the pistol. He might be court-martialed, but he wasn’t going to shoot a German sailor in cold blood. Seeing them killed in battle was bad enough; he still had nightmares about the dead signalmen he had stepped over during the battle off the Rio Plata. Captain Hauer stared at him with rage, face twitching, looking as if he might use his fists to strike Max. He opened his mouth to speak, but the loudspeaker interrupted: “Feindlicher Kreuzer in sicht!” Enemy cruiser in sight!

  Everyone was moving before the alarm bells rang. Max holstered the Luger, dashed for the main companionway, and reached the bridge in seconds, followed closely by the captain. Hauer stared daggers at him, then began giving crisp orders that sent Meteor to full speed just as the first British shells exploded in the water fifty meters off the port beam. Everyone jumped to Hauer’s commands—no question of insubordination now; they must all work together or be killed together. The ship’s disguise had not fooled anyone this time. Yet Max felt relief flooding his body, unwinding the muscles in his gut. He was almost glad to be under attack. Another volley of shells exploded into the water off their starboard bow, closer this time, sending up towers of water taller than the ship. A straddle. The British cruiser, running at speed eight kilometers off their port bow, had their range.

  “Prepare to fire,” Hauer ordered.

  The hull flaps dropped, exposing the batteries.

  A moment as the gun captains double-checked their range—“Fire!”

  With a sharp report the batteries fired, their smoke drifted over the ship. Did the captain mean to fight? Max looked on in astonishment but said nothing. Instead he stood impassively, hands behind him, exactly as Langsdorff had done under fire.

  Meteor had been built as a passenger liner—she wasn’t protected with heavy plates of Krupp steel like a warship. One or two hits would turn her into an inferno. They must turn away now and run with every bit of speed they could muster from the engines.

  Another blast from their guns sent smoke eddying into the bridge. A third set of British shells bracketed Meteor, spraying the ship with water and shell splinters—shattering the bridge windows. The helmsman went to his knees, blood pouring from his face. Max stepped to the wheel and steadied them on course, the helmsman’s blood staining his hands and his uniform. Meteor shook violently as Dieter and the engineering crew below pushed her engines to their very limit.

  “Make smoke,” Hauer ordered, “hard starboard, take us into the smokescreen.”

  Max put the wheel hard over. “Rudder is hard starboard, Herr Kapitän.” Thank God the man had given up the idea of fighting it out with the British cruiser. In moments, a cloud of oily smoke boiled from the special generators on the stern, creating an impenetrable cloud that hovered over the water. Just as Meteor began to turn, a volley of British shells hit her hard.

  Max felt the raider shudder beneath him and then the bridge exploded, the force wrenching the wheel from his hands and tossing him across the deck. The navigator screamed in agony, covering his eyes. Blood seeped out between his fingers. A slick of blood now covered the bridge deck, most of it coming from Captain Hauer’s body, shredded by the blast. Smoke poured through the shattered windows. Men screamed from below.

  Choking on the smoke, Max retched, rose to all fours, slipped on the blood, felt the ship listing beneath him. He pulled himself up again just as another shell struck Meteor, and another, throwing him back down. One of his front teeth broke against the deck.

  He scrambled up and saw flames covering the stern. Meteor’s guns stopped firing, their crews torn apart by the shell splinters. All Max could hear was the roaring fire, punctuated by the cries of sailors—some wounded, some dying, some thrown into the water.

  He lurched to the engine room voice tube. “Engine room!” he shouted. No reply. Max wiped the blood from his eyes and found the radio room voice tube. “Radio!”

  Kurtz, the radio operator, answered as if nothing were out of the ordinary. “Radio, aye.”

  “Kurtz, make to Seekriegsleitung: ‘Most Immediate. Meteor sunk by British cruiser. Need assistance.’ Give our position. Do it now!”

  “Understood, Herr Oberleutnant. And whose name do I sign the message?”

  “Mine, dammit. Send it! Then get the hell off the ship.”

  Habits of bureaucracy died hard. Meteor lurched to starboard, the funnel coming down in a shower of sparks and soot. Max crawled to the loudspeaker microphone, seized it, but it didn’t work. Where were the bell signals? Shit! Still on his knees, he looked frantically around through the smoke. An explosion below rocked the ship again and
she listed even more to starboard—almost forty degrees now. She would turn turtle in a moment. Get out, now! There it was, the panel for the bell signals. He slid across the deck on the slick of blood and banged the “abandon ship” button. Pray God the emergency power circuit still worked. It did. The continuous trill of the distress bell sounded through the ship.

  He scrambled off the bridge to the starboard rail of the listing ship and made the short jump into the sea. The cold of the water shocked him. Salt stung the little cuts on his face and hands. Meteor’s fuel tanks ruptured, tons of oil spilling into the sea, creating a large black slick upon which the ship appeared to float. He turned onto his back and kicked away from the ship, swimming through a pool of oil that covered him like a foul-smelling blanket. It soaked his hair, forced its way into his ears, trickled from his head into his mouth—Max puked and puked again. Meteor loomed above him. He feared that she would fall on him, and he thrashed in panic against the water. Screams filled the air—men dying aboard or men dying in the water. He couldn’t tell. Probably both. The alarm continued to trill. The ship settled by the bow, listing violently to starboard, spilling men over the side.

  Max cleared the oil slick, turned onto his stomach, and struck out for a lifeboat maybe forty meters away. He thought for a moment that he might not make it—his limbs seemed weighted down by the oil—but at last he felt the wooden hull and the men leaned over and pulled him in by his gun belt, the only place they could get a grip.

  Once in the lifeboat, he turned to see the ship afire. Flames engulfed most of the top deck, save for a gap amidships. Here Dieter appeared, along with a group of the Lascars. He must have stopped to let them out on his way up from the engine room. He limped from the companionway and stumbled onto the slanting deck. One of the Lascars helped him to the starboard rail and they tumbled overboard together. Both were struggling hard in the oily water when the burning deckhouse fell into the sea.

  “Dieter!” Max leapt to the gunwale of the boat as the oil ignited. “Dieter!” he yelled.