Das Boot

  “How are we going to proceed after that?” I ask.

  “Exactly according to plan,” is the dry answer.

  The “p” of plan is spat out from between his teeth—his way of expressing contempt for the whole arrangement.

  Later on, however, he does finally condescend to explain. “Among the secret documents we brought with us are instructions to cover precisely this contingency. We’ve been radioed our exact arrival time. Our agents in Vigo will take care of what’s necessary—if they haven’t done so already.”

  “Nice work,” murmurs the Chief.

  “You can say that again.”

  “Time to surface,” the navigator announces.

  “Okay, then, let’s go!” The Old Man gets to his feet.

  Blue-gray evening twilight. The wind comes off the coast, bringing the smell of land. I raise my nose like a dog sniffing quickly to identify the layers of odor, the jumbled smells: rotting fish, fuel oil, rust, burned rubber, tar—but over and through it all there’s something more: the smell of dust, the smell of earth, the smell of leaves.

  The diesels spring to life. The Commander has apparently decided to push on regardless.

  A pair of running lights appears, twinkling. Red, green, then white as well—and higher than the others—that one must be at the masthead.

  The Second Watch Officer reports a ship edging toward us,

  The Old Man turns his glasses, stands motionless for a while, then orders our speed reduced. “Well, doesn’t look—doesn’t look at all bad. She’s planning to run in, no question about that! Vhat would you say—hmm? Let’s just follow her for a while—seems to be another of those small coastal steamers but a sturdy one. Makes a lot of smoke. Must be using old felt boots for fuel. Wish it were a little darker!”

  The Old Man hasn’t had the tanks completely blown, so our upper deck barely rises above the water. Unless someone sees us from the side, we could hardly be recognized as a U-boat.

  The Old Man turns the bow toward the starboard running light of the approaching vessel. Seen from the steamer, we’re lying against a stretch of coast that obscures the outline of our tower: always remember your background—the old rule!

  The Old Man has the helm put slowly farther to starboard, so as to keep the green light over our net guard until the stern light of the steamer also comes into view. Only then does the Old Man increase our speed by one notch. We’re traveling directly in her wake. I can smell the smoke.

  “Phew!” exclaims the Old Man. “For god’s sake, keep a sharp lookout, in case anything cuts across our bow! There must be ferries and other boats like that around!”

  He’s searching with his glasses. Suddenly there’s a shadow to starboard. No time to turn aside! We pass by so close that we can see a spot of light: no doubt about it—it’s a man smoking a cigarette. If he’d been paying any attention he’d have seen us, a strange shadow half hidden in smoke.

  Now we have three or four large shadows in front of us. Are they approaching? Or going away? What’s going on?

  “All kinds of traffic,” mutters the Old Man from under his glasses.

  Lights—stern lanterns—a distant rumbling.

  “They seem to be lying at anchor,” I hear the navigator say.

  “D’you think we’ve already reached the inner roadstead?”

  “Seems so!”

  A whole necklace of lights springs up in the distance, strung delicately along the horizon, but broken here and there; that could mean a pier with ships lying alongside—and the shadows of the ships causing the dark spaces.

  Steamers to starboard, too. Their position is hard to make out. If they were all swinging from their anchors in the same direction, it would be simple. But one vessel lies with her stern toward us, while the one next door is showing her bow. Despite the darkness, their silhouettes are clear against the distant lights.

  “Lying between freighters, apparently,” mutters the Old Man.

  I’ve no notion how he expects to find the right steamer—the one that’s to provision us, the German ship Weser.

  “Ship’s time?”

  “21.30 hours!”

  “It’s all going perfectly.”

  The Old Man gives two full-rudder orders in quick succession. There seem to be difficult currents just here. The helmsman’s working hard.

  Jesus! If only we could use our searchlight. Stumbling about in a strange house in the dark is sheer madness.

  In any case, there are steamers by the dozen and apparently warships too. Over there, three points to starboard, is something that has to be a gunboat or small destroyer.

  The Old Man orders the engines stopped. We keep moving for a while under our own momentum, and as we move, our bow swings around to starboard.

  “Now all we have to do is find the right tub!” I hear the Old Man say.

  More engine-room commands, then steering orders, then more engine-room commands, and another staccato stream of steering orders. A zigzag course between the big shadows.

  Orders to the helmsman and the engine room come spitting out like machine-gun fire.

  “I’m going mad!” mutters the Second Watch Officer.

  “That won’t get the job done,” growls the Old Man.

  “There’s a streetcar!” exclaims the Second Watch Officer.

  Yes—a blue lightning flash, a streetcar! As though to prove the point, the trolley strikes two or three more sparks from the overhead cable.

  In front of us lies a huge dark mass. It must be the overlapping silhouettes of two or three ships.

  “Someone’s flashing!” the navigator reports.

  “Where?”

  I stare hard. For a fraction of a second a tiny point of light flares up in the midst of the huge shadows.

  The Old Man observes it silently. The cigarette glow reappears, goes out, comes on again.

  “The signal!” says the Old Man and takes a deep breath.

  Incredulously, I stand with my eyes riveted to the constantly blinking dot. It can’t be more than a small flashlight!

  “The things they expect of us!” I exclaim involuntarily.

  “Anything brighter would be conspicuous,” says the Old Man.

  Our boat edges slowly closer to the dark mass that gradually resolves itself into three shadows: three ships in a row. The light is flashing from the middle one. The shadows steadily begin to draw apart. We steer directly for the center one. It’s lying at one hundred twenty degrees, then one hundred. Gradually it rises, becomes a barrier wall. The Old Man orders us to turn. Suddenly I hear German voices. “Vatch out! Fender! Get a move on!”—“Don’t go overboard there, man!”—“Another fender here!”

  The strip of black water between the bulge of our port buoyancy tank and the ship’s steep side is steadily shrinking. Now we have to tilt our heads to see the figures of the men bending over the railing above us.

  Our bosun is on the upper deck, herding his men back and forth with half-muted curses. Four or five fenders are lowered from above.

  “At least they know how to tie up!” says the Old Man.

  “Maybe they’ve had some practice. Or d’you think we’re the first?”

  No answer.

  A ship is anchored nearby in a blaze of floodlights, making a murderous din as it loads cargo from some lighter-ships. The thudding of the winches marks the beat.

  “Just as well there’s all that noise,” says the Old Man.

  The dim light from the Weser’s portholes is the only illumination allowed us.

  A dull bump.

  “Wonder how we’re supposed to get up!”

  Then a Jacob’s ladder is dropped over the side. I’m allowed up directly after the Commander. Christ, I’m stiff—no exercise! Hands reach down to me from above. Iron plates resound under my feet. Someone seizes my right hand. “A cordial welcome, Herr Kapitanleutnant!”

  “No, no—I’m not—that’s the Commander!”

  Dazzled, we stand in the doorway to the saloon. Snow-w
hite tablecloths, two bunches of flowers, paneled walls polished like mirrors, attractively draped curtains over the portholes, thick carpet… I move in a kind of dream. Ornamental plants everywhere—in pots on the floor, suspended by chains from the ceiling. My god! Upholstered furniture, and bunches of grapes in a bowl on the table.

  Profound distrust settles in the pit of my stomach. Any minute now there will be a loud bang, and this whole apparition will disappear.

  I stare into the beaming parson’s face of the strange Captain as if he were a creature from another planet: white goatee, monk-like tonsure surrounding a tanned bald spot, collar and tie.

  Someone else shaking my hand. A sonorous voice that seems to come from a great distance. More confusion. God knows the Old Man might have put on something other than that eternal, disgusting sweater! After all, we’re in different surroundings. How can the Captain of the Weser know that this old-clothes peddler is our Commander? I can feel myself blushing, but the Old Man and the Captain of the Weser immediately get together: vigorous shaking of hands, grins, animated conversation.

  We’re urged to sit down. The officers of the Weser appear. Christ! All in full dress uniform. More handshaking and grinning. The Old Man might have worn his decorations for once.

  The Weser’s Captain is positively overflowing with kindness. Like a captain in a picture book: wrinkled, crafty, with big reddish ears. He wants to do it all for us as well as he possibly can. The ship’s bakery has been hard at work since morning. There’s everything: cakes, fresh bread, whatever we want. My mouth begins to water.

  “Christmas cakes too, and, of course, fresh rolls,” says the Captain.

  I can still hear the Chief’s description of his dream food: fresh rolls, melting yellow butter, and hot cocoa.

  The Captain’s voice goes on in a ghostly chant: “Fresh sausages, boiled pork—slaughtered just this morning—fried sausages. Every kind of fruit, even pineapples. Unlimited supplies of oranges, fresh figs, bunches of grapes, almonds…”

  God in heaven! We’ve landed in the Garden of Eden. It’s been years since I’ve seen oranges or pineapples, and never in my life have I eaten fresh figs.

  The Captain relishes our speechless astonishment. Then he molions across the table like a magician and in less than a minute great platters of sausage and ham are carried in.

  Tears start in my eyes. The Old Man is just as flabbergasted. He rises from his chair as if all this prodigality is too much for him and stammers, “I’ll just go and take a quick look—see how things are going.”

  “Everything’s going just fine—it’s all moving along—everything’s going splendidly!” he’s reassured from all sides, and the Captain pushes him back into his seat.

  The Old Man sits there embarrassed and stutters, “Fetch the First Watch Officer—and the Chief…” I’m already on my feet.

  “The Second Watch Officer and the Second Engineer are to stay on board for the time being!”

  “All the crew can bathe,” the Weser Captain shouts after me, “in two shifts. Everything’s ready.”

  When I reappear in the unaccustomed glare of the saloon, the Old Man is still grinning with embarrassment. He fidgets uncertainly in his chair, apparently uneasy at such peace and quiet.

  The Captain wants to know how the boat’s mission worked out. The Old Man squirms.

  “Yes, well. This time they really had their hooks in us. But it’s incredible what a boat like ours can stand!”

  The Captain nods as if these few words are enough to explain everything. An array of beer bottles is set up on the big table. It’s beer from Bremen, plus German whiskey, French Martell, Spanish Cognac, Spanish red wine.

  There’s a knock at the door. What now? Two men in trench coats appear, they take off their felt hats and glance rapidly from one of us to the next as if they’re after a criminal. Enter the police?

  “Herr Seewald, representative of the naval attaché,” I hear.

  The second man seems to be some kind of agent. The First Watch Officer and the Chief come in behind them. The saloon is filling up.

  My heart is pounding. Any minute now we’ll know whether the patrol has come to an end for the Chief and me, or whether it will lead on to Gibraltar.

  More chairs are brought in. The Old Man is already leafing through the papers that the taller of the two has handed him with a formal bow.

  There’s silence for a few moments, apart from the shuffling of papers and the rising and falling howl of the wind.

  The Old Man raises his eyes over the packet of papers and says, “Turned us down, Chief. High Command has turned us down!”

  I don’t dare glance at the Chief. My own mind is racing: This means I don’t go either. Well then, it just won’t happen; so be it! It’s probably all for the best.

  I force a grin.

  After all, the Old Man can’t leave the boat either—nobody can—and without the Chief, he’d be sunk. Am I afraid? The Old Man is sure to win out. But then there’s the opposing argument: The scow needs an overhaul. All that damage—and repaired with nothing but material we had on board. How can the thing hold up? How will we manage?

  Vigo; for the time being we’re right here in Spain. Around midnight. The fact only sinks in by degrees. I have to put up a good front.

  Would I have been so hard hit if I hadn’t been so sure that the Old Man’s plan would really work out? Naturally, I’d been betting that the patrol would end in Vigo for both of us. I simply didn’t want to admit it to myself.

  Not having shown any enthusiasm for the Old Man’s plan right from the beginning, I can act as though I’d expected nothing but a turndown all along. No emotionalism. Refused—that’s okay with me. But the Chief! This is a bitter blow, hitting him much harder than it hits me.

  In any case, the Old Man has trouble digesting the news. That much is clear. He seems glad when the two men in trench coats present him with something else that demands his attention, but he still sits there thunderstruck. These two oily henchmen, ready to bow and scrape and rub their hands, turn the scene into a midnight horror play directed for the crudest effects. The contrasts are too obvious, too gross: the Weser’s dignified Captain and these drunken vultures.

  But how do we look ourselves? I stare at the Old Man as if I were seeing him for the first time. I, after all, am still more or less decently dressed with my salt-encrusted leather trousers and my half-washed sweater, but the Old Man looks as if he’d been thrown out of a poorhouse in the middle of the night. His beard is as shaggy as his hair. On board, we’d all got used to his rotting sweater, but here in the bright lights of this paneled room, even I am exasperated by this frayed, unraveled knitted rag. Only the V neck is still intact. To the right, over his ribs, there’s a hole almost as big as the one for his head. And his rumpled shirt, the ancient cap, his scarecrow’s trousers…

  For the first time I notice how pale, hollow-eyed, and emaciated he looks. The Chief too. He wouldn’t need any makeup job to play Mephistopheles. The last few days have really worn him out. This thirteenth patrol, coming right after the twelfth without any leave, was a little much for an exhausted man who has far more responsibilities to bear than any other member of the crew.

  The Old Man is openly at pains to demonstrate his refusal to have anything to do with the two civilians. He’s wearing his sourpickle expression, declines the cigarettes they offer him, and barely answers them.

  I hear that the Weser allowed herself to be interned here at the beginning of the war. She’s now a kind of floating supply depot that is restocked from time to time with fuel oil and torpedoes. In absolute secrecy—there has to be strict regard for Spanish neutrality.

  I can’t get over the secret-agent faces of the two vultures. The taller is crafty, shy, his eyebrows a single line; low forehead, pomaded hair, Adolphe Menjou mustache, muttonchops extending below his earlobes. Much waving of his arms in the air so that his cuffs shoot out and show the gold cufflinks, The other one has close-set ears, a swarthy
face, and a shifty air. The two of them stink of undercover work a mile off, even if one calls himself a representative of the naval attaché. Difficult, apparently, for a spy not to have a face that fits his profession.

  I overhear odd snatches and tail ends of dialogue. To crown it all, we’re not even going to be allowed to leave mail. Too risky! It’s a secret operation… nothing must be allowed to leak out. We aren’t even supposed to know exactly where Vigo is.

  There will be dreadful worries at home. The patrol has already gone on longer than ever before and god knows how much longer it will be before we can send any mail. How will the men feel when they’re told they have to hold on to the letters they’ve been writing so busily during the last few days?

  And the ensign—how will he be able to stand it? I wish I’d never heard a word of his Romeo and Juliet story. But I can’t just go over and comfort him—treat him as if he’s a callow romantic boy.

  The chatter of the two vultures seems to reach me through cotton wool. “One more, just to cure ourselves of the habit, Herr Kapitänleutnant!”—“That must have been an interesting mission. Herr Kapitänleutnant.”

  I’d be missing my guess about the Old Man if he utters anything more than a mumbled “Yes.”

  Not even their direct questions about our boat’s successes can elicit any response from the Old Man. He simply narrows his eyes and glares from one to the other, waits for his silence to unnerve them, and then says, “Yes.”

  I can see that his mind is working the whole time, and I can imagine what’s bothering him. Involuntarily, I glance at his hands. He’s clenched them together, the way he always does when he feels uncomfortable.

  Then he signals me with a nod of the head.

  “Just stretch my legs a bit,” he says to the company.

  The sudden change from the warmth of the saloon to the cold night air takes my breath away. I smell oil—our provisioning. The Old Man hurries toward the stern with such long strides that I’m barely able to keep up. When he can go no farther, he turns around abruptly and leans against the railing. Between the bow of a lifeboat and the black supports of some iron structure, whose purpose I can’t make out, I see the flickering glow of Vigo: yellow lights, white lights, a few red ones. Two sparkling necklaces run upward, gradually drawing together—that must be a street leading up the hill from the harbor.