Ice Brothers

by Sloan Wilson

  The future with Sylvia would be wonderful, he was sure, but the truth was that he would have no future if he did not find a way to attack the German base efficiently. If he messed up that operation, he would die in the snow or in the freezing sea.

  Strangely, the most comforting fantasy of all during those long, long nights of waiting turned out to be one of victory in battle, not love. In his imagination Paul could see the plans he and Nathan had devised working in magnificent detail. First the planes would bomb hell out of the fjord. Before the smoke had cleared, Nathan would explode three tons of TNT in a ring around the bewildered Germans. At that point the Arluk would make her magnificent entrance into the mouth of the fjord with all guns blazing. She would find the hunter-killer, this new Valkyrie, already afire, but would finish her off with one blast from the big bow gun. Then he would rake the Germans, who would be trying to set up their machine guns ashore. Before they even opened fire, Nathan, Guns and thirty well-trained Eskimos would attack them from the rear with automatic rifles, hand grenades, and finally, those murderous-looking knives the men had made. More depth charges would explode all around the Germans. They would give up—they would have no choice. They would beg for mercy, kneeling in the snow …

  Somehow the fantasy stopped there—Paul did not want to figure out now exactly what he was going to do with all those prisoners. The fantasy picked up again when Paul sailed back to his base on the west coast, to Narsarssuak. There Commander GreenPat would congratulate him, would put him up for a promotion, for command of a full destroyer, and for medals. He would be flown home for a hero’s welcome. Sylvia would come running into his arms. They would take a honeymoon suite at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel for a month. A second honeymoon much better than his first would be his prize for heroism …

  Impatient with those fantasies and almost frightened by their ability to take his mind off any kind of reality, Paul kept his men at gun drill aboard the ship, made sure that Williams was adequately guarding the prisoners and watched Guns show his furry troops how to shoot mortars while Nathan kept an eye on him and Brit tried to teach the natives enough numbers to understand the concept of a weapon’s range.

  Finally everything was done that could be done before Peomeenie’s return. Hans still piloted his ski plane for a peek over the mountain on clear moonlit nights. If it had not been for him, Nathan would have started to move his depth charges up the coast toward. Supportup, but he did not want to take any chance of giving up the great advantage of surprise. For a week there was very little to do but wait. Using clay from supplies, which had been sent from Denmark for the native children, Brit constructed a model of the fjord at Supportup-Kangerdula on a table in the schoolroom next to the dispensary for the sick. She used all the information she could get from the charts, the pilotbook and from Eskimos who had been near that place, but the model was badly lacking in detail.

  “Peo will be able to finish it,” Brit said. “He sculpts beautiful things from soapstone and walrus tusks. He’ll be able to make a model better than he can draw a map.”

  Now all sentences began with “When Peo gets back … When Peo got back, he would be led immediately to the clay model. As soon as he had shown exactly where the Germans were, that information would be radioed to GreenPat, with a request that the place where the light planes were kept be bombed and strafed immediately. If Peo had been able to locate the position of the hunter-killer, she too should be attacked. Nathan had this message already coded and tacked to the bulletin board in the Arluk’s radio shack. Its last paragraph said, “Except for attacking ships and planes, please delay final bombing of base until our ground forces are in position of attack as soon as planes leave. We do not want to give the enemy a chance to dig in again. Amount of time needed for this operation will depend on the weather. Our best guess is a week if conditions we can work in. All our preparations have been made.”

  This message was rewritten several times as Paul and Nathan refined their plans. In their initial attack, the Lightnings and bombers should try to take out all German artillery which protected the fjord, as well as the light planes and the hunter-killer, if they could. As soon as this had been done, the Arluk could move into the fjord without waiting for the ground force to arrive. Without getting close enough to take losses from machinegun or small arms fire, the Arluk should tease the Germans into readying all their forces for an attack from the sea.

  After consultation with Paul, Nathan gave all these detailed plans to GreenPat in advance. They were promptly approved. Even GreenPat started sending messages which began, “When your native scout returns.…”

  “I’m beginning to think we’re waiting for the Second Coming of Christ,” Paul said. “It seems to me that our whole fucking war is coming to a standstill and breathlessly waiting for one damn Eskimo and a woman named Ninoo to quit laughing together and get down to business.”

  On a clear moonlit night two days before Christmas Peomeenie and Ninoo drove their dog sled back to the settlement at Angmagssalik as casually as though they had been on a brief Sunday excursion. They were more concerned with greeting relatives and friends than with hurrying to bring their information to the Americans, and Brit might not have known of their arrival for hours if she had not heard the excitement of the dogs. She and Nathan ran to the Eskimo settlement and found Peomeenie in one of the sod huts which was so crowded with his welcoming friends that no one could get in a word edgewise. Peomeenie and Ninoo were ravenously eating a feast of nicely rotted raw seal meat which had been awaiting them.

  “For God’s sake ask him what he saw,” Nathan said.

  Brit had to push through the tight rings of Peomeenie’s admirers before she could catch his attention. He grinned at her with his mouth full before gulping his food and answering the questions that she kept repeating. They shouted back and forth in the Eskimo language. From Peomeenie’s grins, Nathan guessed that his trip had been successful, but Brit looked astonished when she turned to him and called above the din, “God, I don’t know what’s happening. He says the Germans are all going home. He says not many are left!”

  “Going home? How?”

  After more excited questions from Brit and more laconic replies from Peomeenie, who continued to grin and eat, Brit said, “He says the little planes and the ship have been taking many Germans out.”

  Hell, Nathan thought, the bastards aren’t going home—they’re evacuating a base they know will be attacked and setting up small weather stations all down the coast. That of course is what they came here to do in the first place, and we’ve been sucker enough not to stop them.

  “Where’s the ship now?” he called to Brit above the babble. “Ask him where the ship was when he left.”

  After a brief exchange, Brit said, “The ship is in Supportup Fjord now. They are loading her with many oil drums.”

  “She’s the one who’s going home,” Nathan said. “Her job’s done. Now she’ll load up with their brass and get the hell out of here. Jesus, we’ve been suckered again. Get Peo out of here. We’ve got to take him to see Paul. We still might catch that goddamn ship.”

  It was difficult for Brit to give Peomeenie any sense of urgency. If the Germans were going home, he kept asking, why was there anything to worry about?

  The first that Paul knew about any of this was the sound of the whaleboat approaching the ship in the darkness. With mixed emotions he saw Brit and Nathan standing in the stern as it came alongside the well deck, and then he saw Peomeenie standing beside Brit. He ran from the wing of the bridge to greet them.

  “Christ, everything’s a mess,” Nathan began. “The Krauts are evacuating. Their planes and their men have probably spread men all along the coast, and when Peo last saw their ship three days ago it was loading oil drums on deck.”

  Paul’s head felt as though it were spinning. All their carefully laid plans were for nothing. While they’d been sitting fat, dumb and happy with their great strategies, the goddamn Germans had indeed suckered them again.
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br />   “How many Krauts are left?” he demanded.

  “Peo says he saw no more than twice twenty—not more than twice his fingers and toes,” Brit said. “There may be more underground. He says they live like foxes. And he said their ship is crowded with men.”

  “It sounds like it’s getting ready to make a dash for home now,” Paul said.

  “We might still catch them,” Brit said.

  “Wait a minute,” Paul said. “Peo, come with me.”

  He led Peo to his cabin and showed him a chart of Supportup Fjord. Unhesitatingly Peo pointed to one of several narrow ravines branching out from it, and showed where the airstrip, the hidden hangar and the hunter-killer were. After quickly jotting down these positions, those of the field guns and the rest of the base, Paul gave them to Nathan.

  “Radio these positions to GreenPat. Tell him to start bombing. We’ll get under way and wait off the entrance of the fjord for the air strike. If Fatso is already at sea, we’ll never catch him, but if he’s still there, we’ll get him when he comes out.”

  Nathan ran to the radio shack, Paul to the bridge. The shouting on the well deck had already brought most of the men from the forecastle.

  “Captain,” Boats said, “do you want me to pick up the whaleboat now, or do you want me to take the civilians ashore?”

  “Pick it up,” Paul said. “I’ll stop at the wharf on the way out. That will be quicker.”

  “You can’t put me ashore,” Brit said. “Peo and I can help.”

  “Don’t argue,” Paul said, and called, “all right, let’s get the anchor in. Take the boat aboard.”

  “Paul!” Brit said, tugging at his arm. “You should hurry. Putting us ashore will be a waste of time.”

  “Do what I say. Wait on the well deck with Peo. When I come alongside the wharf, jump fast. I’m not going to tie up.”

  “Where’s Nathan?”

  “Now don’t go bothering Nathan! Brit, I don’t have time to argue with you. If you and Peo don’t jump ashore fast as soon as we get alongside that wharf, you’ll be thrown ashore. Now don’t give me any more crap.”

  “Are those your famous last words to me?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake—”

  “You’ll never be back, you’ll go right back to the west coast. Mission accomplished.”

  “Brit, I got no time for this. I’ll try to get in touch later. Now get off the bridge and wait on the well deck. Please.”

  Brit looked at him, and left the bridge.

  “We’re over the anchor,” Boats called.

  “Break it out. Secure that boat as fast as you can.”

  Paul conned the Arluk down the fjord at her top speed. He approached the wharf at the settlement with a reckless dash Mowrey himself might have admired, paused there for the instant it took Brit and Peomeenie to jump ashore, and headed out of the fjord. Nathan appeared suddenly on the bridge.

  “GreenPat says the planes should wait for dawn,” he reported. “That’s just about five hours. They’ll be here then.”

  “Good. That will give us a chance to get there. If their ship hasn’t already left, the planes will drive it out.”

  Raising his voice, Paul told the men on the well deck that they would be off the mouth of Supportup Fjord in about three and a half hours, and that planes would attack the place at dawn. “If their ship hasn’t already left, we can expect her to make a run for the open sea as soon as they hear the planes coming. I’m going to close with her as soon as I can.”

  The men had been geared up for action and were obviously confused by the prospect of more hours of waiting. After loading the guns, they stood hunched against the cold wind, talking and laughing. Cookie passed out mugs of hot coffee and the men started back to the forecastle.

  Paul too felt a letdown after a sense of violent urgency. It was a little before seven in the morning. A three-quarter moon was riding high in the sky, so bright that no stars were visible near it. The recent gales had left only a thin scattering of icebergs near the coast. A belt of gleaming back water separated the icy mountains from the main ice floe, which glistened about three miles offshore. Changing course to steam down the middle of this, Paul said, “Nathan, can you get the mouth of Supportup on the radar?”

  “I got it. Nothing’s moving, but we couldn’t pick up a little wooden ship like that until we’re damn near on top of her.”

  “Just hope that she’s not already on her way to Germany.”

  “Skipper, do you really want to close with her? How close?”

  “Close as I can get.”

  “Machine guns at point-blank range? Can’t we do better than that?”

  “How? We can’t aim that five-incher worth a damn. The three-incher can’t hit anything until we’re right on top of it. We got two twenties and five fifties. We outgun her.”

  “We’ll take a beating. Two small wooden ships with machine guns at close range could blow each other up.”

  “What would you suggest?”

  “Track her and call the planes down on her if we can.”

  “If she gets out in the ice pack again they’ll never find her and she can outrun us.”

  “We could stay just beyond range of her light stuff and give Guns a chance with our three-incher.”

  “If we screw around too much she’s liable to get away. I’m going to take her this time, I don’t give a damn what happens—”

  “Just give us a chance with the three-incher first. If that doesn’t work, close with her.”

  Paul knew he was right, but for some reason that made him angry. “Damn it, I’m going to do this my way,” he said. “After this, you leave the grand strategy to me—”

  “O.K., skipper. But don’t forget that I want him as much as you do. I just want to take him on our terms, not his. Don’t forget he’s got torpedo tubes.”

  “You think he can hit a trawler with those?”

  “I wouldn’t give him a chance unless I had to. With the planes and big guns on our side, we shouldn’t have to get near him.”

  “Right from the beginning, we’ve been overcautious. You know that, Nathan? We’ve been fucking chicken. One way or another I’m going to finish this thing today if he’s still in there. I’m not going to let him get away.”

  “I’m with you,” Nathan said, and meant it as he turned back to the radar set.

  Everything continued to be curiously peaceful as the Arluk cleared the land and turned south through widely scattered ice floes. Even the wind had reduced its moan to a whisper. It was warmer at sea than in the fjord, though the mercury hovered near thirty below zero. The barometer was dropping, Paul saw as he tapped it. Before long another blizzard was bound to hit. Such good weather in December couldn’t possibly last long.

  If one of those narrow little ships designed for hunting and killing whales loaded enough fuel to try to cross the Atlantic and took on all the people she could cram below decks, she wouldn’t have much speed left, he figured. Maybe he’s no faster than I am now. And if an overloaded little ship like that hit a full gale out here, he’d have his hands full without worrying about me. He’d ice up, and roll over or be swamped. Maybe he wouldn’t head straight for home. Maybe he’d try to find someplace to hole up in the ice while he waited for his own weather stations to tell him when to make his break. If he has a deck cargo of oil drums, he sure wouldn’t want to get machine-gunned. Maybe he’ll try to hide instead of running or looking for a fight tonight …

  Except who the hell could be sure of anything? For the most part, his clever deductions had led him unerringly to the wrong conclusions for months. Who the hell knew whether the damn ship was in its fjord, three days out to sea or in between?

  God, let him still be in his base, Paul found himself thinking. Let me have him, I want him. I want his blood. Now what the hell kind of prayer was that?

  It was at least an honest prayer. Paul was a little astonished to realize that at the moment, all he wanted to do was fight. The fears that had been makin
g him doubt himself ever since he could remember had disappeared. The idea of spotting the German ship for the planes and letting them attack it was infuriating, and he didn’t really want to try to sink the German with his three- or five-incher while staying safely out of range of his machine guns. No, if he obeyed his instincts he’d simply charge the enemy with all guns firing, bring the five-incher to point-blank range and ram the bastard if he stayed afloat. Reason told him that the German machine guns were sure to kill many of his men in such a battle and that he stood a good chance of dying himself, but after months of this dancing around it really was time to fight. Now. Only the delay was hard to take and the thought that the German might already have gotten away. I want him, Paul kept saying to himself, I want him and this time I’m going to have him. Please, God, don’t let him get away—

  Except this was crazy. With all the odds on his side, why get a bunch of men killed?

  Paul shook his head to clear it, as though he were drunk. Nathan was right—he should close with the German only as a last resort. This was no time to pull an Errol Flynn.

  “Get Guns up here,” he said to the quartermaster.

  Almost immediately Guns appeared.

  “If I can, I’m going to stay just beyond the range of this guy’s machine guns,” Paul said. “Do you think you can get him with the three-incher?”

  “We’d have to be pretty darn close,” Guns said. “I can get him with the three-incher at two thousand yards if you give me time for enough shots.”

  “We’ll try it,” Paul said. “If it doesn’t work, I’m going to steam right down the bastard’s throat.”

  Guns nodded. “We’ll get him, sir. One way or another. The crew is ready.”