by Andy Andrews
This, a blatant lie, wasn’t to be uncovered for decades, but in truth, the Lusitania carried much more than human beings as cargo. A secret manifest revealed large amounts of aluminum to be used for bomb making, 50 cases of bronze powder, 1,250 cases of shrapnel shells, and 18 cases of fuses from the Bethlehem Steel Company. There were also 4,200 cases of Remington rifle cartridges, sorted 1,000 to a box, in the ship’s holds as well. In truth, more than half the vessel’s load was being shipped for the war effort, and as a U.S.Treasury official later lamented, “Practically all of her cargo was contraband of some kind.” But then, food for the British people was also considered contraband by the Germans.
“You look splendid, sir,” Ronald said as he straightened Vanderbilt’s bow tie and fussed over the lint that always seemed to attach itself to the black tuxedo. It was almost 8 PM, and the millionaire was leaving the suite to meet Captain Turner and his other guests for dinner.“Dr.Tate is just down the hall in B-48 if you wish to see him. He’s a bit ill, sir.The rocking of the ship, you know.”
“Is this his first voyage?”
“I do believe that to be the case, sir. He intends to eschew dinner this evening in exchange for sleep and asked that he be permitted to begin his work in the morning.”
“Of course,” Vanderbilt responded. “I don’t suppose there is any urgency . . . but I must admit to being overwhelmed with curiosity. Hat or no hat, Ronald?”
“No hat, sir,” the valet replied.“You will be indoors all the way to the dining room. Do you wish me to escort you?” “No, thank you,”Vanderbilt said.“That won’t be necessary. Though, on second thought, you might take my place at the table. It’s certain to be quite stuffy.”
Chuckling politely, the valet said, “There, there, out the door you go.” Then, as an afterthought, he stopped and asked,“Sir? There is a purple jewel case on the shelf in your closet. Was it left by the steward?”
“No, no, Ronald,”Vanderbilt said. “I apologize for not informing you. I purchased the box earlier from the ship’s store. The medallion is in it.”
“Ahh,” the valet responded.“I didn’t know. It is a beautiful case, sir.”
“Yes,”Vanderbilt agreed,“it is indeed. Leave it there, if you will, I want to look at the medallion again when I return.”
“Might I examine it while you dine, sir?”
“Can’t get it out of your mind either, is that it?” Vanderbilt grinned. “I understand the feeling. Certainly, Ronald. You know I don’t mind. A unique piece, that. There is meaning attached, I’m sure of it. Call it a feeling if you will. And soon we will know what that meaning is!”
AT THAT VERY INSTANT, SEVEN MILES OFF THE northern shore of Scotland, Kapitänleutnant Walther von Schwieger swallowed hard in an effort to clear his ears. He had a dull, throbbing headache. But then, he thought, I always have a headache. The foul air—a mixture of sweat, sewage, seawater, and oil fumes—were enough to drive a man mad.
Schwieger had entered the German Imperial Navy at the age of eighteen as a cadet and by the time he was twenty-seven, captained his own U-boat. Now thirty, he was commander of the U-20, en route to hunt the shores of Liverpool. The U-20 was a diesel submarine that had been commissioned in 1913—210 feet long and only 20 feet wide. Schwieger was proud of the boat and had become skilled in the use of her optics, instruments, and torpedoes.
A tall, handsome man, Schwieger had short blond hair and sharp facial features. He was commanding a full crew for this voyage—four officers and thirty-one seamen—all of whom loved and feared him. He had proven his ability to keep them out of danger, but privately, each man marveled at his ruthlessness. In January of that year, off the coast of France, he had torpedoed a merchant ship. Waiting while she sank, he watched the drowning crew through the submarine’s periscope and subsequently sank two more merchant ships as they arrived to attempt a rescue.
In February, without giving warning, Schwieger fired a torpedo at the British hospital ship Asturias. He missed because of torpedo failure, but later defended his attack by insisting that the ship had been an enemy troop transport— a stunning assertion in view of the fact that the Asturias was painted white—with red crosses on her sides more than thirty feet high.
Schwieger was an enigma to his crew. His thirst for the enemy verged on barbarism, yet at times, he was softhearted to the point of recklessness. Once, after sinking a Portuguese schooner, he spotted a dachshund through the periscope. The dog was swimming among the doomed sailors. Ordering the U-20 to the surface, the commander rescued the animal and left the men to die. The dog later gave birth to a litter of puppies, every single one of which Schwieger kept on board the submarine.
Now Schwieger looked at the clock above the radio set. Soon, the U-20 would be clear of the Scottish coastline and free to surface and recharge her batteries. He kept watch through the periscope, anxious for that moment to arrive, as Gerta, a black-and-tan puppy and the only female from the litter, growled and tugged at his pants leg.
“There, there, Gerta,” chuckled Raimund Weisbach, a young torpedo officer,“you are a ferocious hound and certain to replace the German shepherd as a dog of war, but do not harm my commander.” Schwieger smiled at the comment, but never took his eyes from the periscope.
Charles Voegele, a nineteen-year-old electrician, was on the bridge as well. Conscripted from France the year before, Voegele was responsible for the care and feeding of the dachshunds in addition to his other duties. Despite his lack of status—after all, he was a Frenchman forced to fight for a country not his own—the young man was allowed unusual access to the captain’s bridge because of the animals.
“Voegele,” Schwieger directed, “take Gerta and secure the dogs.”Then to Hermann Lanz, his pilot, he said,“In two minutes, take her up. Maintain course at fourteen knots. Set port and starboard watch.” As an afterthought, he added, “Leave the hatch open and get some fresh air to the men.” As soon as he had given his orders, Schwieger exited the bridge and made his way to his berth. As commander, he was entitled to a curtain around the slim bunk—privacy was a submarine’s greatest privilege—but the condensation that dripped from above and soaked the thin mattresses of the lowliest seaman, plagued him as well. Nevertheless, as Schwieger lay down for the first time since leaving Emden, the German Naval base, more than thirty-six hours earlier, he was asleep before the wet bed soaked through his uniform to his skin.
THE UNUSUALLY CALM SEAS HAD MANAGED TO brighten everyone’s mood as the Lusitania made her way across the ocean. The current of nervous tension running through the passengers, which had been so apparent on the day of departure, quickly gave way to the luxurious routine of eating, being entertained, drinking, and eating again. Six days had now passed rather quickly.
Dr. Tate’s seasickness had passed quickly as well and never returned. The first full day at sea, he had decided to finish the translation of the portion of the medallion on which he had already begun. By noon, he had settled on the wording, By your hand, the people shall be saved.
By the end of the third day, the translation had been completed. To Tate, the disk’s contents seemed to be a communication of sorts and a strangely personal one, at that. Though he never mentioned it to Vanderbilt, the shy museum curator couldn’t shake the odd feeling that the medallion’s message was directed to him.
Vanderbilt was struck with the same thought. The medallion moved him somehow in a way he could not describe. As he read the translation for the first time, he had been shocked and embarrassed to burst into tears in front of Dr. Tate and Ronald, his valet. Yet he continued to weep as he read the words over and over, holding the disk in his hand. Never had he felt such a sense of purpose . . . and of value.
Vanderbilt spent days four, five, and six at sea contemplating the medallion’s message. Ronald and Tate were no less intrigued. Their questions were without end. Who wrote the words? For whom were they intended? When were they composed? Why?
Vanderbilt had also, quite uncharacteristically, tak
en a great deal of time to himself. Of course, to a celebrity of consequence, especially a friendly one, any degree of privacy requires that one simply remain in one’s suite.
He was happy to do just that and utilized the solitude to simply close his eyes and think. He was intrigued to find his mind refusing to focus on his usual passions, such as horses or art—even the mission of mercy he was undertaking for the Red Cross Society seemed strangely abstract and far away. His children, however,were unceasingly present in his thoughts—their faces and voices flitting in and out of his musing like tiny birds determined to land on his shoulder. It was unsettling, as if there was an itch that could not be scratched or something he could not remember.
Several times during these moments, he took the jewel case from the closet shelf and opened it, holding the disk in his hands, tracing the symbols with his fingertips and feeling a sense of certainty wash over him. Once, he even laid down on the bed and placed the medallion on his chest, but, feeling foolish, and not wishing to be seen in that position should Ronald enter the room, he quickly placed the disk back into the box and the box back into the closet.
It disconcerted him somewhat that he had become so reflective. It was unlike him, he knew. Yet for some reason, during this entire voyage, his thoughts had consistently returned to questions about his legacy, his responsibility, and his example. What will my boys become? he asked him- self. Will they be like me? And if they do, is that a good thing? What have I become? I have been given so much. What have I given in return? What really matters?
At this moment, Alfred Vanderbilt stood alone in the cool afternoon, leaning against the port railing near the Verandah Café with its beautiful wicker chairs and tables. He could hear the sliding sounds of shuffleboard and the shouts of the winners from the deck above him. There seemed to be an unusual number of children onboard, Vanderbilt thought idly as his mind drifted again to his boys back in New York. They would love to see this. He had been watching flying fish, disturbed by the passing of the ship, leap into the air and travel hundreds of feet before finally splashing down again into the water.
“A penny for your thoughts, Alfred,” a voice interrupted, breaking the calm that Vanderbilt had been enjoying. “Or do your thoughts require a higher bid?” It was Charles Frohman, the impresario. He approached with the aid of an oddly shaped wooden walking stick that he had lately begun calling “his wife.” Unmarried and in considerable pain from the rheumatism in his hip, the cane was his only constant companion.
Vanderbilt laughed politely.“Hello, C. F.”
Frohman stopped and rested, his back against the rail. Short and more than a bit overweight, he had been described as “a frog” in print by several newspaper critics jealous of his wealth and power, but he was well liked and could count Vanderbilt among his friends.“If they come for us,” Frohman said with a teasing grin, “it will be tonight.” Vanderbilt responded with a smile.“Are you giving odds yet on when the kaiser will invade Washington?”
Frohman snorted a laugh. Pausing to light a cigar, he said, “Seriously, were you aware that the captain has ordered the crew to black out all windows and portholes for this evening?”
Vanderbilt continued to look out over the sea, but his expression darkened.“No, I hadn’t heard that.”
“It’s true. I’ve just now come by your suite on Promenade. I have the other Regal, you know, on the port side. In any case, your steward—the boy—was fastening black drapes to your windows. They are also closing the watertight doors. Say, will you be attending the talent show tonight?”
“Yes,”Vanderbilt said simply. Then, back to the subject of possible danger, he wondered aloud. “I suppose you’re right. Tonight would be the night. We’ll practically be on shore tomorrow, isn’t that correct?”
Frohman nodded.“We’ll see the coast of Ireland before noon—that’s what I’m told—and from that point we literally hug the coastline for the rest of the voyage. Then, it’s a quick duck into the channel and a sprint to Liverpool. She’ll be docked by eight o’clock tomorrow evening. Do you know how to put on your life jacket?”
Vanderbilt turned with an exasperated smile to look his friend directly in the face. With his eyes opened wide, he said,“C. F.,my, but aren’t you the bucket of cheer! Wouldn’t you prefer to stalk the deck above? Maybe give the children playing shuffleboard a good scare?”
The shorter man shrugged self-consciously. “I don’t mean to be . . . well, I’m sorry. It’s on my mind. Some of the passengers have formed a committee. They are teaching as many as will listen how to properly fasten a life jacket. Staff Captain Anderson scolded them for causing unnecessary fear.”
“There are signs all over the ship about the life jackets.”
“No one has read them.” Frohman puffed his cigar and watched Vanderbilt from the corner of his eye. “Have you read them?”
The millionaire didn’t answer. Instead, he asked, “What is your estimate of our present speed?”
“Slow! ‘Slow’ is my estimate,” Frohman barked. “We are six days at sea. You, yourself, know that the Lusitania once made the voyage from New York to Liverpool in five days— six, many times—and yet here we are . . . paddling along at eighteen knots. Why, when she can do twenty-six?”
“It has been foggy almost every night, C. F.”
“Well, it’s not foggy now,” Frohman practically yelled.
Conceding the point,Vanderbilt raised another possibility. “Perhaps Captain Turner is intending to increase his speed this evening. And remember, British warships are patrolling these waters as well. I’ve been assured we will receive multiple naval escorts into the channel.”
Frohman tossed his unfinished cigar into the water far below and sighed.“One last comment,Alfred, then I promise to leave the subject for good, and we can join the talent show. Here it is: I have listened carefully to the condescending drivel heaped upon us by Captain Turner and his ilk, and I must tell you, old son, their words of ‘safety’ ring hollow to me. I have been in the entertainment business all my life and have seen more convincing acting jobs from dance-hall girls.
“I am quite certain that it does not even slightly matter whether we have an escort, multiple escorts, or no escort at all! These deep-water, daughters of the devil are depressingly unfair. One cannot defend against that which one cannot see. These submarines are cowardly assassins, sneaking up behind a man and blowing his brains out. They are new weapons for a world that has changed,my friend . . . and no one asked my opinion before they made the changes.”
THE MEN FOUND THE FIRST-CLASS SALOON FILLED to overflowing. This was not only one of the more popular events of the voyage, but an opportunity for the second-class passengers to enter what was an otherwise off-limits area.
It was almost 11 PM when the last performer—an elderly man pounding out a barely recognizable Irving Berlin tune on the piano—finally finished. Though the passenger talent show was a tradition on all ocean liners and usually enjoyed by everyone, this particular production held little interest for Captain Turner. His only purpose in attending at all had been to make an effort at calming the restless passengers and perhaps quelling some of the rumors that were becoming rampant. Anxious to return to the bridge, the captain nevertheless put a smile on his face and, applauding dutifully for the dreadful keyboard mauling he had just witnessed, stepped up onto the stage.
“As many years as I have been at sea,” he said, as the room hushed, “I can honestly say that this particular passenger list, for whatever reason, holds the finest display of pure, unmitigated talent I have ever seen . . . and it was all on this stage this evening!” The audience applauded again as the captain joined them, nodding his head vigorously in agreement. “I should also like to take this opportunity to assure everyone of your absolute safety . . .”
Charles Frohman, seated at a table with Vanderbilt leaned over to him and whispered loudly, “Unbelievable! The man has been onstage for two seconds. He’s covered two subjects with two sentences—and
already told two lies!”
If the captain heard him, he gave no indication. Vanderbilt, on the other hand, struggled mightily to refrain from bursting out with laughter.“Be quiet, C. F.!” he ordered in an amused, but considerably softer, voice. “You have an admirable immunity to embarrassment, but the rest of us haven’t been vaccinated!”
Frohman beamed with pleasure at the remark. His life in the theater had imbued him with a great appreciation for witty repartee, and Vanderbilt could always be counted upon to display his mastery.
“On entering the war zone tomorrow,” Captain Turner was saying,“we shall be securely in the care of the Royal Navy. Of course there is no need for alarm. Please enjoy the rest of your evening, and in closing, may I remind the gentlemen, due to the blackout conditions, please avoid lighting any tobacco on deck. Smoking indoors only. Thank you, and good night.”
As the audience stood to applaud the captain’s exit, Frohman opened his mouth to speak. Before he could utter a word,Vanderbilt interrupted. “I know, C. F. I heard him. ‘You are absolutely safe, but for goodness’ sake, don’t light a match and let them see us.’ Yes, I heard it too.” Frohman smiled, nodding, then suddenly frowned, deciding it wasn’t that funny after all.
THE COMMANDER SAT IN THE ONLY CHAIR ON THE bridge with Gerta asleep in his lap. Except for Lanz, who was monitoring the controls, and Voegele, who stood at attention just outside the room, most of the men were sleeping. The U-20 was ballasted perfectly for seventy feet and drifting with the currents. Schwieger spit onto the sub’s floor, drank from a canteen of oily water, and spit on the floor again. He could not rid his mouth of its metallic taste—or his mind, the thought of it.
The curved walls of the tiny space reflected unearthly shadows as the green glow of the instrument panel bored through Schwieger’s eyes and deeply into his brain, compounding his ever-present headache. He hated nights like this—the total waste of time! Darkness, by itself, had never been a problem. Schwieger could always depend upon a quickly opened door or the cigarette of a disobedient crew member to yield just enough light for betrayal. Darkness with fog, however, was a different story.
