Ice Brothers (56 page)

“Just stand by,” Paul called in German. “We have to make preparations.”

“We have wounded,” the man in the stern shouted. He was young, baby-faced despite his authoritarian voice, and had black lieutenant's stripes sewn on his gray parka.

“We'll give you what help we can, but stand by.”

The rowers let their oars trail. Exhausted, they slumped forward. They did not look as though they could cause trouble.

When his armed men were properly posted, Paul maneuvered the trawler close to the boat, and Boats heaved a line. It fell across the bow and the young lieutenant started barking orders.

“Lieutenant, to begin with, I just want you to come aboard for a conference,” Paul called. “Tell the rest of your men to stay in the boat.”

“We have wounded.”

“We'll take care of them as fast as we can. You first.”

The men in the boat were all talking and shouting as it was pulled alongside the well deck.

“Lieutenant, tell your men I want silence,” Paul said. “We'll do this in an orderly manner.”

Except for the groaning of one man who was lying in the bottom of the boat, they all quieted. The lieutenant climbed nimbly over the rail, drew himself erect on the well deck and did something so unexpected and so theatrical that the men of the
Arluk
could hardly believe it. Sticking out his arm, he gave the Nazi salute and said, “Heil Hitler!”

There was a moment of stunned silence during which Paul gave a very sweet smile worthy of Mowrey himself. Nathan put his hand on the handle of his .45 automatic, but did not take it from its holster. Williams gave a nervous giggle. Guns was the first to find his voice. “Well fuck you!” he bellowed.

The German lieutenant looked startled. His arm fell. “I am behaving correctly,” he said in German.

“Get back to your boat,” Paul said softly in German. “We'll have none of your Hitler shit aboard here. If it happens again, you're liable to get shot.”

“I am behaving correctly.” the lieutenant repeated, but without conviction. He did not move.

“Get back in your boat or we'll throw you overboard,” Paul said in German. “Now.”

The lieutenant scrambled back to his boat.

“Now, if you want to be correct, say, ‘I request permission to come aboard,'” Paul said in German. “The next man to give your Hitler salute will finish it swimming.”

The lieutenant's face flushed. “This is not the way to treat a commissioned prisoner of war,” he said in German.

The men of the
Arluk
could not understand him, but he looked so flustered that they laughed. Their nervous tension turned into gales of merriment. Nathan's face was the only serious one aboard the ship. The upturned faces of the men in the boat looked scared.

“All right, lieutenant, come aboard properly,” Paul said.

The lieutenant climbed silently over the rail, his face still flushed. “I request permission …” he said in German.

“I'm going to send my gunner's mate aboard your boat to search your men for arms,” Paul said in German. “Tell your men to throw overboard any arms, including knives, now. If we find any arms on any man of you, that man will be shot.”

The lieutenant shouted at his men. Two of them discreetly poked hands over the rail and dropped knives. One dropped a Luger.

“Guns, search all of them and check out the whole boat,” Paul said. “Start with the lieutenant.”

“Give us a real Kraut salute,” Guns said with a grin. “Hold
both
arms above your fucking little pinhead.”

“He wants you to put your hands up,” Paul said in German. “Now.”

The lieutenant held his arms rather limply over his head while Guns roughly patted him, then unbuttoned his parka as though he were a schoolchild and ran both hands from his armpits down, and from his knees up his crotch.

“Don't be ticklish now,” Guns said jovially, his stained teeth looking very bright between his glossy black mustache and beard. “He's clean, skipper. Can Blake help me check out the boat?”

“Okay,” Paul replied. “How many wounded do you have, lieutenant?”

“Six.”

“How many seriously wounded?”

“Four, one dying, I think. Burned.”

“We'll take them aboard when we've checked out your boat. The rest of you will have to stay in your boat. We'll tow you into Angmagssalik.”

“We're cold. We're all frozen!”

“We'll give you blankets and coffee. There's no room for you aboard here.”

“Captain, have you ever heard of the Geneva Convention?” the lieutenant asked in German.

Paul gave him his sweetest smile. “Have you ever heard of the
Nanmak?
”

“No. I just got out here. We all just arrived on station.”

“And were heading home with a supply ship? Never mind. The
Nanmak
was our sister ship. She was sunk last summer just a few miles from here, and a boatful of men was machine-gunned. There were no survivors.”

“Captain, I don't know anything about that. Ask my men.”

A tall old man with a stubble of white beard stood in the middle of the lifeboat. Speaking English with a strong Scandinavian accent, he said, “Captain, I'm Norwegian, not German. I'm the engineer—they took me over with the ship. Can I talk with you?”

“What have you got to say?”

“In private please?”

The Germans glowered at him but said nothing.

“Frisk him, Guns,” Paul said. “Then let him come aboard. Nathan, you take charge here. Get the wounded into the forecastle. Don't take any shit.”

“Don't worry about that, skipper,” Nathan said.

After Guns had opened his parka and looked him over, the tall old man came aboard. “My name is Berg, captain, Olaf Berg, chief engineer, Norwegian Merchant Marine for thirty years.”

“Come with me, Mr. Berg.”

Paul led the way to the forecastle, the warmth of which felt good. Before they sat down he said, “First tell me one thing. Where's the hunter-killer?”

“Probably still holed up, I don't know where. He'll be expecting more planes.”

Paul wished that the PBY would hurry up. The thought that the hunter-killer might suddenly pounce on the
Arluk
from the nearest big ice castle suddenly obsessed him.

“Come with me,” he said to Berg, and went back to the well deck. “Nathan, have Sparks keep a radar watch for the hunter-killer. Put a lookout in the crow's nest and tell him to forget about the prisoners—just keep an eye out for the hunter-killer. Keep the twenties and the fifties manned.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Nathan said.

“Come with me,” Paul said. “Cookie, bring two cups of coffee to my cabin.”

Paul sat on the stool by the chart table and let Berg stand. “What kind of crew does the hunter-killer have?” he asked.

“Eight men, sir, but she took all the brass off the
Norway
. Now she must have about twenty aboard.”

“What guns does she have?”

“Just antiaircraft, sir. Depth charges and two torpedo tubes.”

“Radar?”

“No, sir.”

“How long can she stay at sea?”

“She only has fuel for three days, sir. Overcrowded like that, she couldn't last long.”

“The Germans have a base at Supportup-Kangerdula.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How many men are there?”

“Only about ten when we got here. We brought about a hundred, including construction workers.”

“What are they building?”

“Weather station and supply base for weather stations all up and down the coast. And a landing strip for light planes. We brought three in crates.”

“Can they fly yet?”

“I don't know. They're working on them.”

That was one more thing to worry about, Paul realized—even light planes could carry bombs.

“Are the approaches to the base mined?”

“No, sir. The water's too deep and there's too much tide, current and drifting ice. But they've mounted field artillery to command the entrance to the fjord.”

“How big?”

“Big, but I don't know exactly. I don't know much about guns.”

“How many pieces?”

“Two on each side, I think.”

“Did you sail from Norway?”

“Yes. About two months ago. Our ship didn't sink your trawler, sir. The hunter-killer did.”

“How many Norwegians are in the lifeboat?”

“Only three of us, sir. There were eleven of us, but the rest were killed. They wouldn't let us out of the engineroom until they abandoned ship, and the boilers went.”

“How much can I count on you and the other two?”

“Nobody hates the Germans worse than we do, sir, but we have families at home.”

“I'll have to treat you just like the other prisoners.”

“Sir, you can trust us!”

“Can I? Sorry, you'll have to go back in the boat.”

“Skipper,” Sparks said. “The lookouts hear a plane. I can't pick up anything on the radar yet.”

“Get back in the boat!” Paul yelled at the Norwegian. As the man did so, Paul ran to the bridge. “Nathan and Guns, you keep track of the prisoners. The rest of you man your battle stations until we get a look at that plane.”

The men scrambled. Guns kept his Thompson trained on the men in the boat. Two prisoners who were carrying a wounded man aboard put him down on the well deck, and at Nathan's direction got back into the boat. Paul hurried to the flying bridge. The drone of a plane somewhere to the west could now be heard unmistakably, but there was no speck in the almost stainless blue sky. Paul was startled when the big seaplane, a PBY, came over the horizon only a few hundred feet above the ice. It seemed to float slowly toward them, almost like a balloon. When it passed overhead, it dipped its wings and began to circle in a search-pattern.

“Give me a description of the hunter-killer,” Paul called to the Norwegian, who now stood in the bow of the lifeboat.

“Seventy-two feet overall. She's painted white all over. She was called the
Matador
when we had her. They call her the
Valkyrie.
”

Paul looked so startled that Berg said, “You've seen her?”

“No, I've never seen her.”

The coincidence of being faced with an enemy which carried the name of his father's old yawl was not really so surprising, Paul told himself. “Valkyrie” meant some kind of a German war goddess, he had always known. Still, there was something eerie about hearing that name now, as though the ghosts of his past had risen to pursue him.

“What's her top speed?” he asked.

“Better than twenty knots when she's in top shape, but her engine needs an overhaul. It won't give her much better than fifteen, and it smokes like hell.”

Then they won't run the engine when planes are anywhere near, Paul thought. For the time being the
Arluk
was probably safe.

“How heavily armed are the men at the base?” he asked Berg.

“Lots of antiaircraft stuff. Lots of machine guns and mortars. They've put barbed wire around the base. The whole thing is so well hidden in the bottom of a ravine that planes never see it. Some have come real close.”

Blake appeared. “Captain, Mr. Williams wants to know if we can knock off battle stations. He wants to get the wounded aboard.”

“Tell him to go ahead, but keep the twenties manned.”

Paul sent Boats to help with the wounded. He stood on the gun deck while Blake passed a stretcher down. One of the men screamed while they moved him and another kept groaning. They were so covered with parkas and great coats wrapped around them like blankets that it was impossible to see the extent of their injuries.

“Skipper, nobody in the boat has any weapons,” Guns said.

“Very well. Boats, issue each man in the boat two blankets and any spare foul weather gear we have. Rig a good long line for towing it.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Guns, will one of your fifties on the flying bridge cover that boat while we're towing it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Captain, could I at least stay aboard?” the lieutenant said. “I have many things to discuss with you.”

“A good officer sticks with his men, lieutenant. Don't the Germans teach that?”

“But we have much to talk about.”

“Maybe less than you think, but it will wait. Get back in the boat. Cookie, get coffee for the prisoners.”

“I bet he shits in it,” Guns said, and the crew laughed.

“Get them some sandwiches too,” Paul said.

While food and drink was being passed to the lifeboat, Nathan took the ship's medical chest forward to administer to the wounded. Suddenly Cookie ran from the forecastle. His voice was outraged when he said, “They've given my bunk to a fucking Kraut.”

Nathan followed him. “I want to use the bottom bunks,” he said. “Cookie, you and the others can just sleep in the bunk of anyone who's on watch.”

“First I have to get food for these bastards and then I have to give them my bunk,” Cookie yelled. “What the hell kind of a war is this?”

The men laughed and even the Germans smiled. Apparently a few of them understood English.

“Shit, Cookie, you can have my bunk,” Guns said. “Do I get the pick of the chow for that?”

“I'd rather sleep in a bear's cave,” Cookie said, and still grumbling, returned to
his galley.

Soon the Germans were sipping coffee from cardboard cups and munching thick ham sandwiches in the boat. They wrapped blankets around their shoulders, and suddenly looked to Paul like a bunch of firemen on a picnic. Their breath frosted as they talked to each other.

“Skipper,” Williams said, “we've got a case of blackberry cordial in the lazaret. Can I give them some?”

“I'm saving that for the next beerbust ashore. It's worth fifty bucks a bottle. We're not going to give it to the Krauts.”