by Homer Hickam
The Keeper stopped and looked into Harro’s eyes. He did not acknowledge the cowboy soldier or the woman. Harro saw that the Keeper’s eyes were blue-gray, and he saw the pupils in them suddenly enlarge. “Who are you?” he demanded in a strained voice.
“I told you who he is, Keeper Jack,” Willow said.
Harro identified himself once again as a German sailor. “And you, sir?” Harro asked politely.
“I’m Keeper Jack Thurlow,” he answered, continuing his scrutiny. “Who were your parents?”
Harro saw no harm in answering the old man’s question. In any case, he was too tired to argue with him. “I am an orphan. I was raised in a Waisenhaus, an orphanage.”
“Where was that?” the Keeper asked.
“Deutschland, of course.”
The Keeper put out his hand and Harro, tentative at first, took it. The Keeper’s grip was strong. “I understand why Willow has you confused with my son. You see, he was lost at sea seventeen years ago when he was two years old, which means you would be about his age. And you favor my wife—his mother—in the face. Willow is a very smart girl. She remembers things and sees things the rest of us don’t, or can’t.”
Harro took back his hand, wanting to rub it to bring some blood back after the wringing it had taken. “I understand, sir.”
“Please, come inside. Rest for a bit.”
“Josh said I should take him to Doakes,” Rex interjected.
“Let the boy rest and get something to eat,” Keeper Jack replied. “He looks like he’s at the end of his painter.”
Dosie decided the matter. “I think that would be fine, Keeper.”
Keeper Jack led the way and Harro followed, Willow beside him. “Don’t you recognize your father?” she whispered in his ear.
“Please stop saying these things,” Harro begged.
Rex came kicking along behind, with Dosie beside him. “Well, ain’t this something?” Rex spat. “Now, we’re going to let the Nazi rest up a bit. Hell of a way to fight a war.”
“He’s just a boy, Rex,” Dosie scolded.
“And boys just like him killed Joe,” Rex said. “Not to mention all them poor dead sailors.”
Harro entered the Keeper’s House. He felt its snugness and imagined it would be a cozy place during a storm. Keeper Jack waved him and Willow into a large room where there was a fireplace. There was a fire going, and some comfortable-looking chairs set before it. Old-fashioned kerosene lanterns sat on tables made of driftwood. Harro’s eyes wandered over the room and then a question came out of him, completely unbidden: “Wo sind all die Katzen?”
Keeper Jack came inside from the kitchen with a tray of johnnycake and coffee. “What did you say?”
“He said,” Doc Folsom answered, as he let himself in through the front door, “ ‘Where are all the cats?’ ”
The Keeper dropped the tray, and the mugs and dishes smashed on the floor.
“I think we are ready for a test, sir,” the Chief told Krebs. Krebs and Max were on the tower after completing the burial ceremony for the dead boys and committing them over the side.
“All right,” Krebs said, still low from the funeral.
The Chief dropped back down the hatch and the diesels were abruptly shut down. Krebs kept his eye on the stern, then was pleased to observe a froth of pale blue and white bubbles flush to the surface. The U-560 began to make headway. “The electrics are working, sir!” Max cried. Then he added, “Let’s keep going. There’s no telling how long this fix will hold. Every fuse in the boat could blow at any moment. Not only that but we have no communications. How can we accomplish our mission if we can’t communicate?”
“Pretch assures me he’ll have the radio operational once he has consistent power,” Krebs replied.
“And if he can’t?”
“You must stop being so negative.”
“And you must stop being so foolhardy with our lives,” Max snapped. Then he sighed and shook his head. “I’m sorry, Kaleu. I’m a little tired.”
“As we all are,” Krebs calmly answered. “Get some rest.”
“What about Vogel’s operation?”
“To hell with Vogel and his operation. We’ll use up our torpedoes and go home.”
For the first time in days, Max felt as if he might survive this patrol after all.
Josh pulled back the curtain from the sonar closet. “What do you have, Jimmy?”
Jimmy lifted an earphone. “Something big and dense, sir, and it ain’t moving. But I was on to something smaller before.”
“We’re near the Lady Morgan. It could be her you’re pinging.”
“Could be. But I’m sure I also heard propellers.”
“The white shark boat?”
“I’m not sure. Just a constant swishing sound. Then it stopped when this big old thing started echoing back.”
Josh was uncertain of his next move. He was fairly certain that Jimmy was presently bouncing his propagation wave off the wreck of the sunken passenger liner. But it was also possible that the U-boat had parked itself nearby.
Phimble came down. “Skipper, not much current here today. We can shut down and maintain our position.”
Josh made his decision. “We’re going to stick around, then. You keep pinging and listening, Jimmy.”
Jimmy clapped the earpiece back on and hunched over his set, the posture of the sonar warrior.
Keeper Jack asked Harro to sit down and took up an opposing chair. Willow perched on the armrest beside Harro. Rex and Dosie sat on the couch, Rex still cradling his rifle. The driftwood fire was going strong. Doc, who had come to return and borrow a book from Keeper Jack’s library, stood before the fireplace, warming his back.
“All right,” the Keeper said to Harro. “Tell me why you asked about the cats.”
Harro pointed to a portrait on the wall. It was of a young woman in an ankle-length, gray dress with a white collar. Her hair was tied back in a tight bun. She was seated in a wooden chair with a black-and-white cat in her lap and another, this one tabby-striped, at her feet, playing with a ball of yarn.
“I see.” Keeper Jack sounded disappointed. “That is a painting of my wife. Jacob’s mother. She loved cats. Maybe you can see that you favor her a bit.”
“Favor her? I don’t understand.”
“Look like her.”
Harro peered at the portrait. “No. I’m sorry. I don’t see that at all.”
“Why is your English so damn good?” Rex demanded. “I’m starting to think you’re a spy.”
“Father Josef spoke perfect English,” Harro explained. “He ran the orphanage where I was raised. He taught all of his children to speak English. He said it was the language of the world, that no matter where we went, we would be able to find someone who could speak it.” Harro looked at Doc Folsom. “How do you know German, sir?”
Doc shrugged. “German is the language of medicine, as is Latin. I have made a point to study them both.”
Keeper Jack bent forward. His expression was intent. “Harro, tell me what you first remember of your life.”
Harro shook his head. “All I know is that I was in an orphanage in Kiel. Father Josef came and took me, as he did many children. I remember none of this.”
“How old were you when he came and got you?”
“I’m not sure.”
“The first thing you remember,” the Keeper prompted again. “Try. See what you recall. You may surprise yourself.”
“I am very tired,” Harro confessed, rubbing his eyes. The hot fire was making him even sleepier.
“Tell me the very first thing you remember,” Keeper Jack insisted.
Harro rubbed his temples, trying to think. If nothing else, he wanted to please the old man. “The very first thing,” he mumbled. After a few moments he said, “Sand. I think I remember sand.”
Keeper Jack frowned. “Jacob loved to play in the sand.”
Doc said, “What boy raised on an island doesn’t?”
Harro thought some more. “The sand was dry and I remember piling it up, although I don’t know why.”
“Josh taught Jacob how to make a fort out of sand,” Keeper Jack said, smiling at the memory. “He had little soldiers and they used to play war together.”
“Hell, I played soldiers in the sand and I’m from Montana,” Rex said. “This don’t prove nothing except this kraut might be a pretty good liar, trying to fool us.”
“Keeper,” Doc said, “you sound like you hope the boy here is Jacob. You keep throwing him clues.”
Keeper Jack gave Doc’s comment some thought. “I guess you’re right, Doc.”
“I am not your son,” Harro said. “I mean, I don’t see how I could be.”
“I know,” Keeper Jack replied softly.
“How was he lost, sir?”
Keeper Jack told Harro of the tragedy, and how the last ever seen of Jacob had been in the tiny moth boat. “We never found a single trace of him. That was more than peculiar. The way the currents work here, we nearly always find something of those lost off our island.”
Harro shook his head. The sad story had added to his misery.
“I’ve thought about this for a long time, Harro,” Keeper Jack said. “Out on the Stream where Jacob was, there are always many freighters and tankers. What if one of them stopped to investigate a little red boat and picked up its cargo, a baby boy? And now, seeing you, I wonder what if that freighter or tanker was German or headed to a German port?”
“Surely, in the name of common decency, they would take a baby into the nearest port,” Doc argued, “or at least radio in a report.”
“Some freighters are always filled with contraband, especially ones coming up from the Caribbean,” Keeper Jack explained. “Rum, drugs, guns, silver, gems from Brazil, could be just about anything. The crew of one of those contraband-runners could have found Jacob and been afraid to notify anyone of it, lest they call attention to themselves.”
“But the idea of Jacob returning on a German U-boat is ludicrous,” Doc insisted.
“God plays with us,” Willow said. “Don’t you know that, Doc? God plays with us all.”
Doc stared at her for a long second, then nodded. “You humble me with your wisdom, Willow. Though is it God or mere fortune that plays with the affairs of men?”
Keeper Jack looked at Doc. “Doc, you have records on every baby born on Killakeet since 1919, don’t you?”
Doc’s usual composed expression faded. “See here, Keeper, those records are my research materials. They’re confidential.”
“You’ve taken fingerprints of the children, right?”
“Not always—”
“But you might have Jacob’s fingerprints,” Keeper Jack insisted. “You saw him several times after he was born for one thing or another. I remember it.”
Doc shrugged. “I suppose I did.”
“Then,” Keeper Jack said reasonably, “go back to your office, dig Jacob’s file out, and see if you took his fingerprints on one of those occasions. If so, we can discover the truth of this matter.”
Harro no longer cared. It was all a philosophical question, after all. He was not this lost boy, although he felt profoundly lost. He sagged into the chair. He was, within a second, fast inside a deep, dreamless sleep.
45
The electrics were holding and Max was whistling with relief. Thank God for German engineering! Krebs ordered the U-560 to surface after a look around with the attack periscope, the sky periscope left useless by the attack of the Maudie Jane. Krebs swept the horizon toward the sea, then swiveled toward land. The setting sun, a glorious scarlet orb amidst orange and pink streaks, greeted his eye. He saw no ships of any kind. “Surface, Chief,” he said.
As the U-boat came up, the deep thumping of the port drive announced a spinning up by the diesels. Pretch called down the corridor from the radio closet, “Kaleu, the radio is working!”
“Good. Send Vogel a message. Tell him we were attacked and have sustained damage. Also tell him we’re operational and are going back to hunting.”
“Signal coming in from BdU, sir,” Pretch replied.
“Go see what it is, Max,” Krebs said in a voice as tired as he felt.
Max went below while Krebs waited for the lookouts to open the tower hatch. The fresh air that blew in was warm and tangy, Gulf Stream air. Krebs climbed onto the mangled tower and noted that the bow was riding low. “More buoyancy forward, Chief,” he called.
“I think we have a leak in one of the forward buoyancy tanks, sir,” the Chief replied.
Max came up. His face seemed paler than usual. Silently, he handed the message over and Krebs read it carefully. “ ‘Kapitänleutnant Krebs relieved of command for unauthorized contact with enemy,’ ” he quoted. “ ‘To be placed under immediate arrest and delivered to the proper authorities upon return. Rendezvous with U-Vogel and take on new commander.’ ”
“Vogel must have picked up our transmissions to the Americans,” Max said. “A fucking disaster, sir.”
Krebs folded the message and tucked it in his jacket. He allowed a weary smile. “I am not functioning well these days, Max. I should have known Vogel’s radio operators would be listening to the patrol boat, too.”
“There is a way out.” Max lowered his voice to a whisper. “Surrender to the Americans. After the war, we won’t find the present government in power.”
“Be silent! That’s treason. I will surrender to Vogel. You and the other boys will perform in your usual professional manner during his operation. It will be proof of your loyalty and perhaps all will be well for you.”
“Think about it, sir,” Max said, then headed below to find the manual that would tell him how to sink the U-560 and test the mercy of the Americans they had drowned so liberally over the past six weeks.
Josh came awake and found Marvin sitting on his bunk beside him. That had never happened before. He quickly sat up, bumping his head on the wooden locker placed perfectly for just such an eventuality. Marvin growled at him. “What’s your problem, Marvin?”
Marvin jumped down and clambered topside. He was the only dog Josh had ever known who could actually climb a ladder. Sighing, Josh got up, tucked his shirt in his pants, and looked unsuccessfully for his shoes. He went forward and found Fisheye bent over the sonar screen, his eyes closed. “Wake up,” Josh said, putting his hand on the boy’s shoulder.
Fisheye’s eyes flew open. “I am awake, sir, just resting. Ping, pock. Ping, pock. Over and over. It’s enough to drive you daffy.”
Jimmy was curled up in the corridor, lightly snoring. Josh woke him and told him to replace Fisheye, then sensing trouble, went back to his bunk and opened the locker on which he had bumped his head. From it, he removed a small ax. It was an anautaq, as the Aleuts called their battle axes. He had brought it back from the Bering Sea Patrol. He’d learned to fight close-in with it in several pitched battles against renegades. The blade was of the finest American steel and was honed sharp as a straight razor.
Josh slipped up on deck and froze until his eyes adjusted to the darkness. He listened but heard only the Stream bubbling against the Maudie Jane’s hull. Maybe his unease was not warranted, he thought. Maybe Marvin had just gotten hungry and that was why the little dog had decided to come below. But why had Marvin awakened him and not Millie? Marvin knew very well who was the cook and who was the captain.
There was a glow around the edges of the wheelhouse hatch, emanating, no doubt, from the dials of Stobs’s radios. Josh crept past the wheelhouse, glancing inside through a portal. Phimble was at the wheel, his head slumped forward. Atop the wheelhouse, he could make out the shape of Preacher slumped against the fifty caliber. The Stream had lulled them all asleep, except for Marvin. Josh thumped a knuckle on the portal glass and Phimble jerked upright. Then Josh climbed up to Preacher. “Wake up,” he whispered, nudging him. Preacher grunted. “Hush,” Josh hissed.
Josh eased back down the ladder to the deck where he nearly tripped
over Marvin. Josh stared at the dog, then slowly turned in the direction he was looking. Josh tightened his grip on the ax when he heard something squeak against the hull. Suddenly, there was a blaze of light high in the sky. Flare! Josh found himself standing in front of a man dressed in gray fatigues and holding a machine pistol. His face was covered with black grease, a face that Josh would later reflect had a goofy expression. Beside him stood another man, dressed the same, but holding a rifle. Josh saw the rafts the men had arrived in. For a split second, they were all frozen in place. “Surrender or you dies!” the man holding the machine pistol cried out, and pointed it at Josh.
Josh lashed out with his ax and the man fell backward, his nearly severed neck spewing blood. Another swipe with Josh’s ax sent the second man down, clutching his stomach. Josh struck a third man as he came on board, the axe this time embedded in the man’s chest. Then from the tower of a U-boat not more than a hundred yards away, a machine gun erupted. Preacher immediately fired back, more flares began flying, and the deck was suddenly awash with light and blood.
Phimble ducked as bullets blew out the starboard portals of the wheelhouse in a shower of glass and bronze splinters. He started the engines and pushed the throttles forward as far as they would go. The big diesels howled and the Maudie Jane responded, pulling away. Josh had slipped and fallen in the blood from the three men he’d killed with the ax. One German remained, standing all alone. Josh took his rifle away from him and tossed him howling into the sea.
The rest of the Maudie Janes came up through the hatches, scattering in the face of the wild machine-gun fire coming from the receding U-boat. Ready had the Enfield and began cracking away. Josh yelled at the boys to get back below. Preacher was still firing, pounding the U-boat and exploding its searchlight. Still, it came on, launching flares. Tracers from its twin-barreled machine gun and Preacher’s crisscrossed. Phimble began to weave the patrol boat back and forth, but the U-boat easily turned with it. Its rounds began to chew up Maudie Jane’s deck. Desperately, Josh armed the depth charges and sent them rolling overboard.