Someone says it’s 8 PM already, though here it’s always nighttime, or daytime, or some uncertain thing that’s not night or day, just the artificial light of the fluorescent bulbs in this enclosed tube. The CO has ordered us to lift off from the bottom; everyone who’s on duty goes to their stations. In the forward section, someone puts back all those uncomfortable life jackets that most of the guys have taken off. I’ve found my book again, in the middle of the mess that was left behind when the bunks were taken down, the book about the animal in his labyrinth, so I sit on the floor, on top of a little pile of clothes, near one of the lights that are always on, and I start to read. Those who aren’t at their stations are still curled up in some cleared spot on the ground, trying to sleep. Now they turn off the engines and we float, carried along by a current that leads us toward the patrol area assigned to us around the islands. We’re positioned to snorkel and change air. In the torpedo area, Grunwald helps Heredia wrap the handles of other tools. Suddenly the air circulation noise stops and we all know that happens when the sonarman needs more silence so he can identify a noise: down here, listening is like seeing. There’s a piercing silence; an officer whispers the order to cover our combat posts, an order that circulates from man to man; before me I see feet stuffed into socks or sneakers; someone remarks that the noises might indicate a group of boats that seem to be returning from Puerto Argentino. Could they have bombed anything? Grunwald asks softly, but the question remains floating until it dissolves into the thick air surrounding us because there’s no time for answers, or there’s no energy for those answers we don’t want to hear. We submerge again, to hide on the bottom once more, till they pass over us; we can’t shoot off torpedoes here, so we remain quiet and still, or there won’t be enough air. The buzz of circulating air returns, the lights are turned off, leaving only the most essential ones: I can’t read anymore. Might as well try to sleep a little. Almaraz informs the Executive Officer that the amount of CO2 is 1.2 and if it keeps going up we’re going to have to control the oxygen supply. Egea comes by with a tray, offering glasses of juice, the only thing there is to drink. The CO decides to authorize Almaraz to start controlling oxygen, we’re at the limit of our breathable supply, and of course our nerves and fear don’t help; more air gets used up: Will we be doomed to suffocate here, to lose our strength slowly, fall asleep and die, or will we be doomed to explode into pieces because of some torpedo or depth bomb that eventually will find us? But no one dares to ask the question. What’s for sure is that there’ll be no lit stove or hot food today. The Executive Officer bursts out of his cabin, scratching his head and walking toward the command post: Excuse me, Captain, sir, permission to smoke; the CO stands there looking at him as if he can’t quite understand, turns his head, looks at Almaraz; then he confronts the inquiring eyes of the Executive Officer, who’s already started to pull a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket. Maceda, we’re controlling oxygen, he replies dryly; Oh, okay, sorry, he says as he replaces the cigarette in the pack; Go and rest like the other men, the CO adds; then Maceda turns on his heels and returns to his bunk. I feel tired, straighten out the clothing and blankets I’ve settled on top of, feel something compact and hard with my hand and pull aside the blanket: it’s the jar of capers. I grab onto it like it’s the wood that’s going to save me from this shipwreck. I close my eyes.
I’m awakened by Rocha announcing that he has a bad headache and a very dry nose; it seems the others have the same symptoms because the nurse goes around distributing aspirins to everyone who needs them; I don’t take anything, I don’t feel anything unusual, and if I did have pain I’d rather just put up with it and let it go away by itself. We’re going to rise to snorkel level, which is to say we’re staying at around sixteen meters below sea level, but with the snorkel outside, to change the air and charge the batteries. Somebody says it’s five AM; we’ve been on the bottom for almost a day. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever see daylight again. For now these lights are turned on and I’m fine with that, I go back to my book, trying to find the page where I left off. There’s activity in the galley. Loza is making a rice stew that we’ll all eat while sitting on the floor or leaning against whatever we can find, trying not to make any noise at all. A strong smell of shit invades the atmosphere, which always happens when we snorkel, even more this time, after so many hours of being submerged and without venting. The animal curls up in one of his favorite places in his den, and stays there as if he wants to sleep, but he doesn’t want to sleep, he just plans to stay there, calm and still, smelling the scents of the accumulated prey in the central area, but he’s overcome by drowsiness and after a while falls sound asleep.
We’re still sailing northeast, says someone nearby; it looks like we’re heading toward the María zone, the area we’ve been assigned to patrol. One part of the crew occupies its posts, the rest are now setting up the bunks again, putting them back in their places, creating a little order. While we snorkel they raise the antenna to see if any news of what’s going on outside can be reached through Radio Colonia in Uruguay; it’s the only way to find out anything in this enclosed cylinder, buried at the bottom of the ocean; apparently Argentine radio stations aren’t reliable, as someone suggested a few days ago. We have no news through official channels either. A couple of guys stand around the radio, someone asks for the equipment to be connected to the speaker beside the galley so we can all hear, the CO says no, making noise isn’t safe, if there’s any important news he himself will pass it along to the crew, we don’t need rumors and distractions, let everyone go on doing his own job. The area is cleared; the Executive Officer, who is among those huddled around the radio, suddenly stands up, goes over to the CO, and whispers something to him, but I can’t quite hear it from where I am; the CO’S expression changes, now he looks worried, he shakes his head no, don’t communicate anything till it’s official, I think I can read his lips, but I’m not really sure he actually said that. I don’t know exactly how, I don’t understand what he’s saying, but it’s clear that the second-in-command persists, his gestures looked annoyed, and again a refusal from the CO. The Executive Officer returns to the officers’ cabin, goes inside and closes the door. The CO takes up his route again from the command post to his cabin; once he gets there, he turns around to resume the return trip, from his cabin to the command post.
It seems like I’ve slept for quite a while. I stand up to stretch my legs, which have gone numb. Then an officer spreads the announcement that the CO wants to talk to all crew members who are awake. A group of men quickly forms between the galley and the command post, around eighteen of them, all in suspense. It’s just been confirmed that the cruiser General Belgrano has been sunk. No one says anything, some make fists at the ends of their dangling arms, others close their eyes, others open their mouths without letting a word escape, others smack their foreheads, while still others rub the backs of their heads vigorously; the CO surveys their expressions with a glance; one of the group, breaking that uncomfortable silence, says that there were four submariners on the cruiser; no one knows yet if there are survivors, the CO adds; the Executive Officer is there, too; he exchanges a look with the CO when the captain orders the men back to their posts. I stay where I am, beside the periscope; the second-in-command addresses the CO; he tells him something in such a quiet voice that I can only make out random phrases: computer … inefficiency … helpless … offensive capacity. The CO lets him talk and then replies with words that disintegrate without reaching me, through air that is now almost solid. The second-in-command turns and walks away. The snorkel operation is over, the batteries are charged, the air has been replenished, and immersion maneuvers begin.
You won’t believe this, exclaims someone nearby, startling me awake, the Captain is smoking! I open my eyes and see Egea crossing from the CO’S cabin to the galley with a tray that holds the remnants of a meal, some cutlery, an empty glass, and some used paper napkins. I glance toward the stern and see that there are four guys stand
ing next to the radio, all four of them intently scratching their heads, one after another, as if they were following a secret, inexplicable plan; the CO walks from his cabin to the command post with a lit cigarette squeezed between his lips. Rojas says something to Grunwald, who pops out immediately in search of Heredia; he finds him in the kitchen, serving coffee and chatting with Egea, who has emptied the tray and is wiping it down with a damp dishcloth. C’mere, man, Rojas just heard something, some news he wants to give you in person. Heredia leaves the dishcloth on top of the counter and hurries, followed by Grunwald, over to the radio equipment; he walks up to Rojas, who still has earphones on and is listening attentively, and taps him on the shoulder. Rojas holds up his hand, signaling him to wait. Grunwald stops behind Heredia, Soria passes by on the way to the engine room, carrying his tape recorder and cassettes. Rojas takes off his earphones, you’re the father of a boy, he says to Heredia; he was born two days ago, May 1. See? I told you, I knew it! Grunwald pats him on the back, while turning to Rojas to ask: Did they tell you what time the kid was born? Around three in the afternoon, Rojas replies, smiling at Heredia. See? Grunwald insists, exactly when I told you! Remember? Three o’clock, when they were firing the depth charges, see? he repeats, as he gives Heredia a hug, and he’s gonna be a worker, che, because he was born on May Day … or maybe he’ll turn out to be a lazy bum! Heredia pulls away from Grunwald a little; his eyes are filled with tears; don’t pay any attention to me, he’s gonna be a worker and support you, Grunwald tries to joke, don’t cry, che, you’ll meet him soon, you’ll see, just stick with me, ’cause I swear I’m going home, we’re going home. Rojas puts the earphones back on and returns to his job; Heredia and Grunwald walk right past me; I follow them with my eyes and watch them go into the galley, Heredia to find the half-filled cup that he left on the counter; Grunwald to pour himself some coffee. On the other side of the corridor, the CO’S cabin door is ajar and I can hear someone who isn’t the CO say that we’ll have to return to port to fix the computer. I think I recognize the voice of the Executive Officer adding: even if it’s back to Rawson, because like this, with no computer, we’re out of commission, we have no way to attack or to defend ourselves. Grunwald and Heredia come out of the galley, laughing: someone—the captain, I imagine—pushes the cabin door from inside, closing it. Of course I’ll be the godfather, and you have no idea how I’m gonna spoil him, Grunwald says to Heredia as they walk away toward the bow.
I can’t feel my feet; I’ve just realized I can’t feel my feet, I can see them, at the ends of my legs, covered by socks that used to be blue and are now a blackish brown, but I don’t feel them. I move them, my head gives the order and I can move them forward, first one, then the other, and then I walk, but I have the sensation of floating, because I can’t feel the pressure of my soles against the floor. I try to explain to myself what’s happening to me and I tell myself they must have fallen asleep from lying in an uncomfortable position, but I don’t have the usual prickly feeling, though walking like this, even if it feels strange, gets me where I want to go. And so I walk, in order to see if I can get back the lost sensation. Gathered around the table at the bow, Soria, Torres, and Albaredo have finished their shift and are eating. It looks like they’re rescuing the survivors of the General Belgrano, Torres remarks; How do you know? Soria asks; Rojas heard it on the radio; well, anyway, there must have been many dead, Albaredo cuts in, you can’t survive too long in icy water, especially if you’re wounded. I also found out that there was heavy ground fighting today on the islands, Torres adds. A voice behind me interrupts them: Che, Albaredo, Officer Garmendia is calling you; the converter is out of order and we need to activate the auxiliary. I’m coming, Albaredo replies, wiping his mouth with a napkin that he leaves on his enamel dish, he also picks up the utensils, lays them in an X across his plate, collects everything in his right hand, stands and starts walking. I decide to follow him, maybe he’ll need me, I can help too. I look at my feet; I still can’t feel them, but I give them the order and they start to move; I catch up with Albaredo just as he stops before the galley’s open door. He deposits the dish with the utensils and the used napkin in the sink and heads toward the engine room; I bring up the rear. Beside the fact that the fire control computer isn’t working, now we have to sail with the emergency converter. We sure are doing great.
Soria has come out of the engine room and is on his way to the galley in search of coffee for everyone. Torres and Albaredo are still cleaning the grease off their hands with solvent and a rag. Everything is done by hand in this kind of boat, all with manpower, human skill. The emergency converter is still working; now we’ll have to wait and hope it doesn’t get hit or we’ll be completely out of commission and exposed. Soria enters the engine room with a pitcher of coffee in one hand and two more in the other. We’ve sunk the destroyer Sheffield, he informs us, and nobody dares say a word in response as the new arrival holds out his arms toward Torres and Albaredo to distribute the coffee. I heard it when the CO was telling Ghezzi, Soria explains; they want us to go to the last location where we saw the boat and confirm the sinking. They clink the pitchers in a toast, and since they don’t need me, I’d just as soon return to my corner, my book, and my threatened animal. A naval battle, I suddenly remember as I leave the engine room, water, hit, sunk. Everything was clean then, a cross on a piece of paper, something about strategy, a little luck, a little studying the other guy’s face, but clean: pencil, a perfect grid traced with the same wooden carpenter’s square we used to take to school, boats that were just little squares drawn in pencil or ballpoint or felt-tip pen, and coming from the other side, temporary enemies who later we would play ball with on the same team. Hit, sunk, but no trace of blood, or screaming, or fire, or icy water that cuts off your breath, or fear, or death. The General Belgrano, hit, sunk. The Sheffield hit, sunk. Lieutenant Ghezzi is sitting at the chart table, his elbows resting on the smooth surface of the navigation chart spread out on top of the glass cover; the light from underneath barely brightens his face, his eyes are fixed on a point he hasn’t yet marked, he grabs his head with both hands, then stretches his arms as if trying to shake off the numbness; at last he draws the point on the shiny paper and stares at it for a while, he lays the pencil aside and squeezes his face with both hands, crumpling it like a sheet of paper that he’s about to roll into a ball and toss into the wastebasket. I don’t know why, but I think I can tell what question he’s asking himself.
They’ve withdrawn the order to rush to the area where the Sheffield is, and we return to our patrol area around the islands. We still haven’t been able to see them, no crew member has seen them, not even the CO through the periscope.
A man floats and rocks inside his orange life jacket, face up on the surface of the sea. An albatross, as though recently arrived from a cloud, perches on his belly, the man opens his eyes and doesn’t look at the bird on his body, but rather upward, he watches me, I see him as if I were suspended, as if I, too, were a heavy albatross, held up by the unusual afternoon chill. Now, after seeing his eyes, I recognize him: it’s Medina. I didn’t want to stay on land, he tells me, that’s why I became a sailor and prepared to come in case you needed me, see? And the Salta, why not on the Salta? I ask him. It was being repaired, he explains, they said it had broken parts that made noise and so it stayed there, at least till we took off. But why the cruiser? I insist. Because that was what there was; the Belgrano was about to weigh anchor and I signed up as a volunteer, he replies, and the albatross turns calmly on its legs for a change of view, but in the end I never got to see the islands, we stayed here, on the way. Well, I reply, how do we know if we’re going to see them? We’d have to win, and disembark, in order to do that, right? Yeah, sure, he says just as the albatross starts pecking at one of the silvery buckles on his orange jacket. And for us to win, we’d have to have torpedoes that work, I inform him. He opens his mouth as if to say something but then changes his mind and doesn’t answer me. A piece of ice goes f
loating by; from here it looks as green as an emerald. Won’t I see you anymore? I insist. You’re seeing me right now, he answers, and this is all we know, neither of us can say how this story will play out. Then I notice that both of us are gently floating southward. Without saying another word, Medina closes his eyes, the albatross flaps its wings, pushes off with its legs, takes flight, and Medina’s body begins to sink as if the albatross had been holding him up, the water covers him; I rise higher, and the visual line that joined us stretches out, until I can no longer make out his body, with all the water on top of him. So much water, so much that I have the feeling we’re the first ever to have burst into this silent sea.
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