by Tom Young
His limbs flailed with the parachute’s opening shock. The horizon righted itself, and the sight rocked Karl’s inner ear so hard that bile rose in his throat. He swallowed hard, managed not to vomit.
He looked up and saw he had a good chute. Sunlight filtered through the round white canopy. Around him, Karl saw nothing else in the air. No airplane, no other parachutes. He prayed everyone had gotten out safely and their chutes had opened. God only knew where they’d landed.
But where was the aircraft? Karl saw no telltale fire on the ground to mark its crash site.
Distant booms began to echo. Karl scanned the skies around him and saw black puffs, maybe three miles away and several hundred feet above him. The flak gunners were firing at his airplane, still aloft. Amid the flak explosions, the B-17 rolled into a ninety-degree bank and began to plunge. Hellstorm in its death spiral, manned only by Adrian’s ghost.
Karl felt a fullness in his throat. If I’d turned back when I had the chance, he thought, Adrian would still be alive. We’d have flown another mission in a day or two, and then we’d have gone home.
Hellstorm tightened her spiral, traced a black corkscrew of smoke toward the ground. Karl kept his eyes locked on his airplane through her final moments. The left wing separated and tumbled away in flames. The rest of the B-17 impacted at the river’s edge. The explosion showered debris into the Weser, and the fire cast a wavering reflection across the water.
10
The Clothes of a Dead Man
The flak guns across the river began pounding again. Wilhelm looked up in surprise to see a strange sight: A single Flying Fortress twisted a flaming path to the ground. Wilhelm lost sight of the aircraft behind a screen of trees, so he did not see the bomber hit the earth—but he heard the impact. A flat crump from a kilometer away, a bit like the sound of a depth charge exploding.
Wilhelm knew little of air tactics, but he thought it odd for a lone bomber to venture over an enemy city. Why would its crew do something so clearly suicidal? Then a possible answer occurred to him: The crewmen had either died or bailed out, and with no one at the controls, the bomber had circled back over its target. The guns fell silent, and Wilhelm decided this incident did not concern him.
What did concern him was the devastation he found as he neared his grandparents’ neighborhood. Cratered streets led to flattened apartment buildings and scorched chimneys standing sentinel over bare foundations. Even in blocks that remained undamaged, houses appeared empty. Boards were nailed over windows, and weeds grew through cracks in the sidewalks. Dead leaves littered stoops. A scene of abandonment and loss entirely out of accord with Wilhelm’s childhood memories.
As a little boy, he had walked these streets with his grandparents and their dog, a big Alsatian named Bruno. Whenever Oma and Opa stopped to chat with neighbors, Wilhelm would pet Bruno between the ears and ignore the adult conversation. After a few seconds of this, the dog would lie down and roll onto his back, wanting his belly scratched.
And—perhaps unusual for an Alsatian—Bruno loved the water as much as Wilhelm. During trips to the lake at Bürgerpark, the dog liked nothing better than to swim after a stick that Wilhelm would throw as far as he could. Bruno used to paddle back to shore, drop the stick, and shake water from his fur in a spray that covered a laughing ten-year-old Wilhelm. When Wilhelm got older, Bruno would ride in the sailboat with him, a loyal mate on the first vessel Wilhelm commanded.
These happy memories brought tears to Wilhelm’s eyes. It was an entirely different life back then, when boats were tools of pleasure and not instruments of destruction. Homes were solid and permanent, and loved ones lived long lives.
Bremen’s streets had changed so much that Wilhelm did not recognize some of them. Stumps marked where mature trees had once stood. Wilhelm wondered if bombing had destroyed the trees or if desperate residents had used them for firewood. He lost his bearings and wandered aimlessly along an alley with no identifying sign. But when the alley dead-ended onto Wachmannstrasse, he knew exactly where he was.
His grandparents’ street.
Stumps lined the crumbling pavement. Wilhelm could close his eyes and bring the lindens back to life, see them before him as if they grew there still. He wandered down the sidewalk, avoiding trash barrels, bricks, and other debris. Half the homes on Wachmannstrasse were destroyed or damaged. The rest appeared empty. At his grandparents’ address, instead of a four-story town house, he found a pile of rubble. Bombs had leveled the entire block.
He had experienced such happy times here. Christmas mornings. Family reunions. Birthdays. Evenings when his grandfather read him sea stories and his grandmother made apple strudel.
The last time he’d been ashore he’d found his parents’ home abandoned—and now his grandparents’ house was gone.
Wilhelm sobbed, sank to his knees. The motion spiked pain through his ribs. His entire world seemed upended, everything he stood for either betrayed, perverted, or blown away. I did my job, he thought. Why wasn’t that enough to prevent this? For a moment, he felt tempted by the easy way out: to place the barrel of his Luger against the roof of his mouth and end the nightmare.
Instead, he wiped his eyes and cheeks on the sleeves of his fatigues and reminded himself to act like a German officer.
From the remains of his grandparents’ home, he selected a chunk of brick. A piece shaped in a rough pyramid, about the size of the horizon mirror on a sextant. He put the fragment in his pocket. Wilhelm did not know why he did this. A piece of the past to carry him into the future, perhaps.
On the next block, Wilhelm found an intact row of townhomes. Smoke rose from one of the chimneys. Wilhelm knocked on the door.
An old man in a tattered naval sweater answered the knock. He wore a great gray moustache with waxed points in the style of the previous century, and his ocean-blue eyes flashed with more than a hint of annoyance. But when he saw Wilhelm’s fatigues and cap, his expression softened.
“What can I do for you, Oberleutnant?” the man asked.
“Very sorry to disturb you, sir,” Wilhelm said. “I just came back from patrol. My grandparents lived on this street. Can you tell me what became of them? The Göttingers?”
The man stroked his moustache, regarded Wilhelm.
“Would you like to come in?”
The words sounded muffled. Is this an invitation?
“What’s that, sir?” Wilhelm asked. “My hearing, it’s a little off.”
“Would you like to come inside?”
“No, thank you. I have to be on my way. But I saw what happened to my grandparents’ house.”
“I am sorry you had to come home to that, son.” The man spoke more loudly now. “I know your grandfather. Good man, Kurt Göt-tinger. He moved away.”
“And my grandmother? Was she hurt in the air raids?”
The old man stood silently for long seconds. Wilhelm knew that could mean nothing good.
“No,” the man said finally. “I see that you do not know, and I am sorry to be the one to tell you this. Your grandmother Ingrid was very sick. When she passed, Kurt could not stand to stay in the house. I do not know where he went. Bombs hit the street about a month after he left.”
Wilhelm stared down at the masonry that made up the old man’s stoop. Forced himself to keep his composure. Oma is gone? Could the navy not have managed one radiogram to inform me?
“Come inside, my boy,” the old man said. “I can see you have fought hard. Submariner’s patrol beard and all. I have a shot of schnapps for you.”
The schnapps sounded tempting. Wilhelm was tired and hungry; maybe the old man would offer food, too. Against Wilhelm’s better judgment, he accepted.
“You’re very kind,” Wilhelm said. “I won’t impose on you for long. I’ll be on my way in a few minutes.”
Inside the old man’s sitting room, Wilhelm needed a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. The man bade him to sit on an overstuffed sofa. Books lined the walls, and a wood fire burn
ed in a hearth made for coal. Above the hearth hung a painting depicting the 1916 Battle of Jutland: roaring guns of British and German battleships and destroyers locked in one of the greatest naval engagements of all time.
There was no mention and no sign of a wife; Wilhelm guessed his host was a widower. The man disappeared into another room for several minutes. He returned with two small glasses and a bottle of pear schnapps. Poured three fingers of schnapps into each glass and handed one to Wilhelm.
“I started heating the kitchen stove,” the man said. “I can offer you some schnitzel in a little while.”
“Thank you very much,” Wilhelm said. “I take it you’re a navy man.”
“I was. Forgive me, I should have introduced myself. My name is Rudolf Brandt. I was a captain in the Kaiserliche Marine.”
The old Imperial Germany Navy. The glory days of Tirpitz and Spee.
Wilhelm took a tiny sip of the schnapps. He was being careful. He hadn’t had alcohol in weeks and food in hours, and he feared the drink would go straight to his head. The schnapps tasted like a freshly picked pear, with a burning sweetness behind it. Wilhelm’s throat and stomach warmed instantly.
Brandt pointed to the cut on Wilhelm’s left arm. “What happened to you?” the old man asked. “Got a little too close to the Tommies and Yanks?”
“Uh, no, sir. I slipped and fell on the deck the other day. It is nothing.”
Wilhelm knew it was a lame story, but it seemed to satisfy Brandt.
“I heard the bombers,” Brandt said. “Did they hit the submarine base?”
“I fear they did, but I was not there at the time,” Wilhelm lied.
Wilhelm placed his glass atop a coaster on an end table. Despite his best efforts at courtesy, he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep. The sound of rattling dishes woke him twenty minutes later. Brandt brought him a plate of jägerschnitzel, along with a knife and fork.
“Thank you, sir,” Wilhelm said. He sat with the plate on his knees and sawed at the schnitzel. Working with the knife made his sore thumb hurt again, but Wilhelm didn’t care. The meat’s aroma filled his mouth with saliva. He tried to eat slowly and to mind his manners, but the effort took self-control. It was the first hot food he’d had in days.
“You eat like you just got off the boat,” Brandt said.
“I have, sir,” Wilhelm said, chewing. “I wasn’t sure how long I’d have on leave, and I didn’t want to miss seeing my grandparents, but . . .”
“An awful thing to learn as soon as one sets foot on shore.”
“Yes, sir.” Wilhelm decided to change the subject—and maybe get some information that could help him. “What is the latest news of the land war? I’ve been a bit disconnected from that lately.”
“I’ve been disconnected from it, too,” Brandt said, “so I am afraid I cannot help you. I no longer listen to the broadcasts. You see, my son died on the Bismarck back in ’41. Since then, I don’t care a cup of bilgewater for anything about this war.”
Wilhelm had been onshore at Kiel when the Bismarck went down. Of course, everyone in the navy had followed the reports closely. The Bismarck, the greatest capital ship of the Kriegsmarine, destroyed the British battlecruiser HMS Hood in the Battle of Denmark Strait, between Greenland and Iceland. The Tommies wanted vengeance, and the Royal Navy launched a five-day sea-and-air hunt for the German warship. They caught her six hundred kilometers off the coast of France.
A torpedo dropped by an aircraft from the carrier Ark Royal damaged one of Bismarck’s rudders, and that proved a fatal wound. Unable to maneuver with a jammed rudder, she steamed in a circle as the British battleships King George V and Rodney moved in for the kill. A raging duel ensued, with the Tommies firing hundreds, maybe thousands, of shells. The shells set Bismarck afire stem to stern, and torpedoes finished her off. From a crew of more than two thousand men, only about a hundred survived.
“I’m very sorry for your loss, Captain Brandt,” Wilhelm said.
Brandt waved his hand almost dismissively. Wilhelm thought it a strange gesture. Then the old captain looked into the fire, stared at the flames for a long time as if trying to control his emotions. Keeping all parts of his mind at battle stations, Wilhelm thought. Maybe Brandt was done with pity, long past wanting anyone’s sympathy.
When Brandt looked up again, he changed the subject.
“Son,” the captain asked, “do you need a place to stay during your leave?”
The offer tempted Wilhelm, but he could not accept it. Soon the navy would suspect he’d deserted. Then other parts of the government would get involved—agencies without the navy’s codes of honor and professionalism. Anyone sheltering him would be endangered. Wilhelm decided to ask for a couple of small favors, then move on as soon as possible.
“I appreciate that, sir,” Wilhelm said, “but I have to be on my way. If you don’t mind, though, I’d like to wash up and shave off this beard. And, as much as I hate to ask, borrow some civilian clothing. All my clothes were in my grandparents’ house.”
“By all means,” Brandt said. He pointed to a staircase. “The bathroom is at the top of the steps. My son’s old room is the door to the right. You’re a little taller than he was, but you may have any clothes you find. Pardon the dust. I don’t go in that room anymore.”
“What was his name, sir?”
“Meinhard. Leutnant Meinhard Brandt.”
Wilhelm finished his schnitzel, repeated his thanks, and climbed the stairs. On the second floor, he found a cramped bathroom with a pedestal sink and a claw-foot bathtub. Next to the wall, a radiator pinged and hissed.
With a flick of his wrist, Wilhelm turned the hot-water knob for the bathtub faucet. Tested the water with his hand and found it ice cold. While he let the water run, he entered Meinhard’s room. The door groaned open on hinges clearly not used to moving. As Wilhelm’s host had said, dust coated the bedstead, mirror, and dresser, thick enough to lend a gray haze to every surface. Only one object sat on the dresser: a framed photograph of a smiling boy in a midshipman’s uniform. Beside the midshipman stood a younger version of the old man downstairs, resplendent in the dress coat of a kapitän zur see.
Wilhelm felt he had intruded on a shrine, invaded some sacred place where he had no business. What would the old captain say if he knew I was a deserter? Probably throw me out in a rage and call the Gestapo, Wilhelm thought. Or would he? Young Meinhard’s death now seemed so pointless, so unnecessary.
God willing, Wilhelm thought, my absence will let my crew escape the pointless death that awaited them. They can’t patrol without an executive officer; the Kriegsmarine would never send out a boat without a second in command. Perhaps the navy will split up the crew to fill absences on other boats—ones without insane suicide orders.
The petty officers and seamen with their whole lives ahead of them might get to live those lives and not become ghosts that haunt rooms such as Meinhard’s.
But am I fooling myself? Wilhelm wondered. Will they not just name another exec and send my comrades on a one-way patrol? No way to know. At least I won’t be complicit in the crime, Wilhelm considered. As a navy man, I have sacrificed my honor to save it.
Wilhelm looked into the dusty mirror. Gave a bitter, bewhiskered smile, and thought: Ah, yes, try explaining that at your court-martial.
He opened the top dresser drawer. The odor of mothballs rolled into the air. The drawer contained two stacks of shirts, each one quite properly folded into a square as if ready for inspection. Just what a good midshipman would have done. Wilhelm selected the first shirt on the right stack, a long-sleeved flannel garment. Held it up against his chest. A little small for him; the sleeves were too short. No matter, he’d roll up the sleeves.
In the second drawer, Wilhelm found trousers. He unfolded a set of canvas britches and held them against his waist. Like the shirt, they were a little small, but they’d do. With the clothes draped over his arm, he considered whether to look for anything else. He didn’t want to: Taking
anything at all seemed a desecration. But he needed to blend in with civilians, and the old captain had said he could take what he wanted.
Wilhelm opened a closet. Four sets of uniforms hung from coat hangers, cleaned, pressed, and waiting for duty. Waiting eternally. Wilhelm also found two civilian suits and a leather civilian jacket. He took the jacket and retreated into the bathroom. Placed the clothes over a towel rack and once more tested the water flowing from the bathtub faucet.
The water flowed hot now; steam fogged the window. Wilhelm stoppered the tub and let it fill. Unbuckled his belt and placed the belt and holstered Luger on the floor. Untied his boots and pulled them off, stripped out of his filthy fatigues. He kept on his navy-issued watch, the dial marked KM. The watch had endured years of salt spray and storm; a few droplets of bathwater wouldn’t hurt it.
Wilhelm closed his eyes as he lowered himself into the water. Just like at the end of any other patrol, a hot bath felt like a wild extravagance. The water stung the cut on his left arm and a dozen other scratches, but the pain passed. As he sat down in the tub, his sore ribs ached, and he shifted his weight until he found a comfortable position. He opened his eyes and examined his hand where the thumb had been dislocated; the thumb remained in place, and the bruise radiating from the joint had grown larger and uglier. Wilhelm leaned against the back of the tub, closed his eyes again, and fell asleep.
When he woke up, the water felt cool. A film of grime floated on the surface. Wilhelm glanced at his watch and saw that he’d slept for fifteen minutes, just enough to take the edge off his exhaustion. In the U-boat, he had gone days with little more rest than that. Wasting no more time, he took a cake of soap from the soap tray, scrubbed himself thoroughly, stood up and dried himself, and pulled the tub’s drain stopper. The water drained away to leave a ring of the filth he’d washed off. Wilhelm turned on the cold tap, cupped his good hand to catch the water, rinsed away the ring, and turned the water off again.
