Ferret looked down into his beer. “I don’t want to die, Herr Kaleu,” he said quietly.
Was Ferret drunk? Max didn’t know how sympathetic he ought to be. At the Marineschule Mürwik, it would have been a cuff around
the ears and no more gloomy talk. But that was in 1936. Ferret had never even wanted to be a naval officer—he’d been a junior
officer on the Norddeutscher Lloyd Line before the war, before he was “volunteered” into military service like the chief,
like any merchant navy officer who could manage to hold a sextant. Max said, “I don’t want to die either, Ferret, but we will
if we don’t keep our wits about us. That much I can guarantee you. I don’t know what chance we have, but if we don’t keep
our heads up before the men, then we have no chance at all. They must have faith in their officers.”
“Achtung!” someone shouted.
The flotilla commander. Thank God. Max sprang up and came to attention. Eckhardt entered, also wearing knee-high cavalry boots,
and made his way slowly to the front table, detouring to shake hands with the men. Smiling when he finally reached Max, he
said, “A fine-looking crew, Brekendorf.”
“Thank you, Herr Kapitän.”
“At ease,” Eckhardt called. “We’re here to enjoy ourselves.”
That brought a cheer from the men. Eckhardt grinned, teeth shining white beneath his bushy gray mustache. Everyone liked the
flotilla commander, but more, they respected his nine war patrols and the one hundred twenty thousand tons of enemy shipping
he’d sunk. His Knight’s Cross had been personally awarded by the Führer himself, but Eckhardt wore the great honor lightly.
Of all his accomplishments, it was the magnificent Kaiser Wilhelm mustache with which he claimed to be most satisfied. “The
pride of the fleet,” he’d once told Max with a laugh.
Now he motioned for Max to sit. Taking a seat himself, Eckhardt leaned in and lowered his voice: “I say, old man, the flotilla
engineer assures me that you were damned lucky to make it back alive. Another half meter out of the water and the Brits would
have opened you up.”
Max shrugged. He’d been trying not to think about this very fact for nine days now. “I’d prefer to never see a British destroyer
that close again, sir.”
“I expect not, Brekendorf, I expect not. But you’re back here in one piece and that’s what counts. I’ve sent your report on
to Admiral Dönitz and I know he’ll be pleased with what you and your men have done.”
Max puffed the cigar and blew out a cloud of thick gray smoke. “And helping the British sailors?”
Eckhardt held out his open hands. “Who can say what the admiral will think of that? You’ll have a chance to ask him yourself.”
“Sir?”
“You are to report to him in Berlin as soon as your leave is up.
The ‘Lion’ wants to see you in person.” Dönitz had moved U-Boat Command back to Berlin from France in February after his promotion
by the Führer to commander in chief of the Kriegsmarine, replacing Grand Admiral Raeder.
Max felt his stomach tense. A reprimand? Court-martial? “For what, sir? Do you know?”
The French waiter placed a glass of wine before Eckhardt, and he took a swallow, wiping his mustache and smacking his lips.
“Good, that.”
“Herr Kapitän?”
He looked at Max. “Don’t worry, Brekendorf—he’s not going to hang you from the yardarm. He’s sending you and a few others
to operate off Florida. Think of it as a government-paid vacation to America—a ‘Strength Through Joy’ cruise, yes?” Max laughed.
But America was something else altogether. Max couldn’t keep a smile from his face. No more of the damned North Atlantic.
He’d heard stories about how good the hunting was off the American coast, how their shoreline was not blacked out. Ships silhouetted
against the lights made perfect targets. To be sent on such an assignment meant the High Command had tremendous faith in his
abilities. He said, “I am honored, Herr Kapitän.”
“The admiral said he wanted a few young bucks, so naturally you came to mind. I’m certain you won’t disappoint me, Brekendorf.”
“No, sir.”
America. Many on the Naval War Staff had regarded the U.S. Navy with contempt since Pearl Harbor. “They’re inept,” one of
the bureaucrats in the Torpedo Directorate had said to Max. “No one could ever have surprised our fleet like that.” Max had
been tempted to point out that Germany barely had a surface fleet left to surprise. He did not think the Americans were so
inept. He had met U.S. Navy officers on his training cruise when
Emden
called at the port of San Diego. Max and his crewkameraden were invited aboard the aircraft carrier U.S.S.
Saratoga
; they watched
Saratoga
launch and recover aircraft. The Amis didn’t look inept that day. It would be a very long crossing. So much to think about.
Eckhardt put a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t plan it out tonight, old boy; tonight is to enjoy.” He signaled the headwaiter
to begin serving before the sailors became too drunk to eat. Leh mann took his cue and shepherded the men to their seats.
Eckhardt stood, Knight’s Cross gleaming about his neck. The collar of his shirt almost obscured the shoelace he and most other
recipients used to keep the heavy medal around their necks. He twirled the waxed ends of his mustache, then took his glass
up from the table and raised it in the air. “To my comrades, the gallant crew of
U-114
.” Everyone drank.
Lehmann stood, too. Max raised his eyebrows, hoping this wouldn’t embarrass him. “To the Führer,” Lehmann said.
Everyone got to their feet, lifted their glasses, and drank.
“Ein Reich,” Lehmann shouted, “ein Volk, ein Führer!” Was he drunk already?
Eckhardt looked angry. Party slogans weren’t to be repeated at naval gatherings. He put his hand on Lehmann’s arm to quiet
him. “Men of
U-114
, under your Kommandant, KapitänLeutnant Brekendorf, you are in the front line of our struggle against the Allies. All Germany
speaks of the courage of her U-boat men. Everyone in the Fatherland follows your exploits with pride. For the achievements
of your last patrol, for the courage with which you faced exceptional danger and persevered, the admiral commanding Unterseeboote
West has directed me to award each of you the Iron Cross Second Class.”
The crew applauded wildly.
“And now, men, to your victory dinner. All of you have earned it.”
The appetizer was a dozen raw oysters for each man with real Spanish lemons for seasoning. Max forked the oysters down. Damn,
they tasted good. And the lemons—he hadn’t seen a lemon in years. He sucked the pulp out, even swallowed the seeds. No sooner
had he finished than the waiter dropped another dozen oysters in front of him, then filled his glass with champagne. Easy,
Max told himself, go easy.
“Will you go on leave tonight, Brekendorf?”
“I will, sir. To Berlin. My fiancée’s mother was just killed in a bombing attack last week.”
Eckhardt put his fork down. “I’m truly sorry to hear that, truly sorry. These damn terror bombers.” He shook his head. “The
Allies are so high and mighty about the Reich violating a few rules of war, but they’ve simply torn the rules up. They make
war on our women and children—Goebbels is right for a change, they are murderers.” He brought his fist down on the table.
“My wife is from Hamburg. She lost both her sisters this summer, most of her cousins. The scene there… I can’t even begin
to fathom it.”
Neither could Max. Two hundred thousand people had died in a single night in the inferno that followed a British raid on Hamburg
at the end of July. The number simply could not be real. No one could fathom it. The climatic conditions had been perfect
over the city that night for the bombers: warm and extremely dry. The Tommies attacked with seven hundred planes and their
incendiaries created a firestorm, literally a tornado of flame that tore through the center of Hamburg with winds of better
than two hundred kilometers per hour—sucking people into the cyclone, cremating them in the shelters, setting the asphalt
afire. The Fire Protection Police could do nothing to stop it. And the next day, the Americans came over and bombed what little
remained.
“Where is the Luftwaffe?” Eckhardt said. “I ask myself that every day. I ask Marinegruppenkommando West every day: ‘Where
is the Luftwaffe?’ No one knows. If only the navy had some planes of its own, instead of that swine Göring having them all.
You know he doesn’t ever fly? He has his own train. Can you imagine? The commander of the air force won’t get in an aeroplane.
The damn Tommies are everywhere in the air, the sky is full of them. They’re sinking half our boats as we run out through
the Bay of Biscay before we even get to the Atlantic. Half of them! I don’t know how their air force is so strong and ours
doesn’t even seem to exist. And now their American cousins have joined in with gusto. The damn Amis.” He shook his head again.
“The Führer always says, ‘There is more culture in one Beethoven symphony than in all of America.’ And he’s right, Brekendorf.
The Führer is right. But a Beethoven symphony won’t stop a bomber and the Americans aren’t writing symphonies to drop on us.
They’re making bombers and bullets and bombs and ships, and they’re damn good at it.”
Max took a gulp of wine to hide his surprise. Half their boats were being sunk from the air in the Bay of Biscay? Eckhardt
picked his fork back up and resumed eating. “Don’t worry. We’re tearing out that popgun you have now and putting in some real
antiaircraft firepower while you’re on leave: two twin-mounted twenty-millimeters and one quadruple twenty-millimeter. Herr
Tommy will have a bear by the ass if he comes after you.”
More armament would be welcome but it would mean a change in tactics. Max would have to run out in broad daylight so they
could see the British planes; crossing the bay surfaced at night would be too risky now. And what if more than one plane came
at him? What if two or three came at once from different directions? He could submerge and creep out underwater. But he would
have to proceed at just two knots. Even at two knots, he could keep moving underwater for no more than sixteen hours; after
that he would need to come back up and run on the surface for six hours so the diesel engines could recharge the batteries.
It would take a week to reach the Atlantic that way and Max knew he wouldn’t have a week to spare. Every boat had to make
for the front as quickly as possible to stop the Allied ships pouring men and supplies into Britain. Well, he would have his
whole leave to consider all the options. For now there were more oysters and fresh boiled lobster with real Normandy butter,
and fresh brown bread—not the green mold-covered lumps they’d been reduced to eating on the U-boat by the middle of their
patrol.
The waiter brought real coffee and real cream once Max had demolished his lobster. There was cheese and fruit, fresh apples.
Max felt bloated. He belched. The champagne went down so easily, like cool water on a hot day. Pray God they had a wheelbarrow
on hand to get him to the train.
“A cigar?” Eckhardt said, opening a new tin.
“Thank you, sir.”
He lit Max’s cigar, then offered them around to the other officers. “A woman is only a woman,” he said, “but a good cigar
is a smoke. Rudyard Kipling.”
Max grinned. Eckhardt must be drunk as well if he was quoting an Englishman. In front of Max, the relentless waiter placed
a brandy snifter half-filled with amber liquid. As he raised his glass, Lehmann stood again. “Comrades! A song!”
The men banged their fists on the tables in approval.
“
We are sailing against England
,” Lehmann bellowed, starting them off:
Today we want to sing a song,
We want to drink the cool wine,
And clink the glasses together,
Because we must, we must part.
Soon everyone joined in, waving mugs and glasses as they sang, their pale faces now flushed and red.
Give me your hand, your white hand,
Live well, my sweetheart,
Live well, my sweetheart,
Live well, live well.
Because we sail, because we sail
Because we sail against England, England.
The songs and toasts went on for hours:
“To our cook, the best in the fleet!”
“To the brave men of the second watch!”
“To the joy girls of Lorient!”
“Three cheers for the Kommandant!”
“To the joy girls of the world!”
Finally Max stood to leave, bracing himself against the table. Around him, the room had gone blurry at the edges. At least
he hadn’t puked. Yet. “God bless you, sir,” he said to Eckhardt. His salute was off-center and then he remembered that he
wasn’t supposed to salute without his cap on anyway. To hell with it. “Thank you most kindly for the new anti-aircraft guns,
sir. A thousand thanks. Thank you.” Turning to his men, he shouted, “Auf wiedersehen, comrades! May you always have a hand’s
breadth of water under your keel!”
Those who heard him answered with drunken salutes. A few already lay facedown in their plates. Others went on singing, pausing
between verses to drink from magnums of French champagne. One young sailor stood to salute Max properly but toppled over,
clipping a table, sending a half dozen dishes to the floor with a tremendous crash.
When he woke at dawn on the U-boat train, Max felt like there were coal miners at work in his head. His body swayed to the
rhythm of the train and the motion put him back to sleep. An hour outside Kiel, Josef, the steward, woke him with a jug of
hot water and clean towels. Max shaved and wiped himself down. Josef had also pressed his uniform and even spit-shined his
riding boots. “Can’t have you front-line officers looking like a lot of Italians, Herr Kaleu,” he explained. Josef didn’t
think very highly of their former Italian allies. Of course, Josef had spent his first ten years at sea in the old Imperial
Navy, where every brass bolt sparkled, every deckboard gleamed, and every crease was razor sharp. But Max had a certain fondness
for the Italians. He’d been aboard an Italian submarine once. It was much larger than a German boat, and even had a small
officers’ lounge with a bar. God bless them—that was the way to go to war. But the Italians were no longer fighting alongside
the Reich. The Allied invasion had broken them; they surrendered three weeks ago and were now reportedly preparing to switch
sides.