by Tom Young
A small globe of blood oozed from the wound. Karl rinsed it in the water, then took hold of the hook shank again.
“Now hold still,” he whispered in English. “I’m trying to do you a favor.”
With his other hand, Karl grasped the fish’s jaw. It flopped again, more feebly than before. But this time, Karl held its mouth steady and managed to avoid getting jabbed again. All the while, he held the trout under the surface except for its head; he knew the fish would have a better chance of surviving if he kept it in the water and didn’t break the mucus membrane that enveloped its body.
With a twist of his thumb, he wrenched the hook free. If he’d been trout fishing back home in Pennsylvania, he’d have used the pliers he carried just for this purpose, but today he made do with his own pierced thumb. When he let go of the fish, it flashed away like a miniature torpedo, leaving a swirl of mud and bubbles.
Karl held the lure in front of his face and examined the hooks. Two of them had bent from when he’d gotten snagged earlier. He looked on the ground until he found a pebble about the size of a golf ball, and he used that to bend the hooks back to their original shape.
He set to cast again, but an unpleasant thought made him pause. Today he fished to survive; would he ever again fish for pleasure, just to enjoy nature? Doubtful.
No, he told himself, you gotta stop thinking like that. But another part of his mind argued: It’s the truth.
Then don’t think about it, he decided. Think about what you’ll do during the next couple of hours. Maybe the next couple of days. But not beyond that. Stop thinking about a future that doesn’t belong to you any more than this rod and reel or this cabin.
Karl flung the lure again, made a nice long cast with no tangle or backlash. That made him feel a bit better. One of those little achievements, like an especially smooth landing or a good joke that made your buddies laugh.
He retrieved without getting a nibble, and he continued casting, sometimes to his left, sometimes straight out in front, sometimes toward his right. He lost count of his casts, never got a bite, and began to wonder if the first fish was the only one he’d get today.
Just when he began thinking about either trying a different lure or a different spot, the rod came alive. The line went tight and pulled hard. Karl hauled back on the rod to set the hook.
The hook’s sting must have angered the fish—and this one felt strong. It strained against the line, even took out a few more feet of line as the drag whined. The rod bent into a U, and Karl reminded himself not to try to horse this fish to the net. Good way to break the line. Just let him run and get tired.
He held just enough pressure to keep the line taut, and tried to reel in only when the fish turned and ran toward him. Then it zagged right, and the water seemed to boil where the fish surfaced.
Karl saw that he’d hooked a big German brown trout. Maybe it would go fifteen pounds. The fish thrashed on top of the water like a bass, threw spray with its tail, then dived again. Karl pulled a little harder to give the trout more resistance. Sometimes a big fish like that could be smart enough to swim around an underwater snag and pop the line.
The fish found no snag, but it put up a hard fight. Its strength and will to live transmitted up the line, down the rod, and into Karl’s hands. He played the fish for twenty minutes before he began bringing it closer to shore. Karl would reel in five or six feet, then lose three or four.
But eventually, through patience, he brought the fish within reach. It lay in the shallows, gossamer fins wavering. Flush from the fight, its underbelly glowed yellow, and dark speckles covered its back.
A shame to take its life, Karl thought, but we have to eat.
With one hand, he reached behind him and found the net handle. Pulled on the rod with his left hand, scooped the net with his right, and lifted the trout, dripping, from the lake.
29
Machines, Wounded and Bleeding
Wilhelm had known this idyll at a lakeside cabin must end soon and could end badly. In the late afternoon, after he and the Yank had finished the fried trout, the end came. Stray snowflakes began spiraling across the windowpanes, and Wilhelm felt sleepy amid the cabin’s warmth and wood smoke. Hagan took a bucket of warm water into his room to shave and wash.
Wilhelm sat alone at the table and sipped coffee—yes, coffee, though he could hardly believe it. They had found a half-empty bag of grounds in the pantry, and Hagan made what he called “coffee the cowboy way.” He’d boiled water, stirred in the coffee, then dropped in a cold stone to settle the grounds. Wilhelm found the coffee quite passable, and he was holding the warm cup in his hands when he heard footsteps approaching the cabin.
“Hagan,” Wilhelm called out by way of warning.
He put down the coffee and reached for his Luger. Felt spiders crawling through his gut. Stood with his back to the wall, facing the door. He wished he’d grabbed the Colt he’d taken from the dead American gunner, the better to claim to be a Yank. But that weapon remained in its holster on the floor beside his cot.
Hagan did not answer Wilhelm’s call; perhaps he hadn’t heard it. The footsteps approached the cabin door. The door burst open with a hard kick.
In the doorway stood a white-headed old man pointing a rifle. Gray stubble softened the lines of his jaw. He leveled the muzzle in Wilhelm’s direction just as Wilhelm raised his Luger.
Neither man fired.
“What are you doing here?” the man shouted. “Why are you in my lodge?”
The man wore hunting clothes: a woolen field jacket and an Alpine hat. He carried an old bolt-action Gewehr 1888, and now he held it with his cheek on the stock, one eye closed, and the other peering down the barrel at the center of Wilhelm’s chest.
“Uh, we . . . I am a s-soldier,” Wilhelm stammered. “I got separated from my unit. I am sorry to trespass, but—”
“You don’t look like a soldier,” the old man snapped. “Where is your uniform? What is your rank? You are a deserter or a thief.”
Before Wilhelm could answer, Hagan threw open the door to his room. Crouched low in the doorway, his cheeks pinked by a fresh shave. Gripped his .45 with both hands.
The old man swung the rifle toward Hagan and fired. Wood chips flew from the doorjamb. When the old man started to work the bolt on his antique weapon, Wilhelm struck. He sprang from the table and drove a left hook into the man’s jaw. Stunned, the old man staggered backward into the wall and dropped the rifle.
“Don’t make us hurt you,” Hagan said in German.
Wilhelm stood over the man and held the Luger loosely, finger outside the trigger guard. The man looked up, wide-eyed. Then he closed his eyes, hard. Waiting for the shot, apparently. But he said nothing.
“I understand,” Wilhelm said. “You fear for your life. Sir, we have no intention of harming you.”
The old man opened his eyes and said, “Go to hell.” Rubbed his jaw. Glared up at Wilhelm.
“We are not robbers,” Wilhelm continued, “and we beg your pardon. Just let us go on our way.” He kicked the rifle out of the man’s reach.
“Are you deserters?” the man asked. “Do you not have the guts to defend your Fatherland?”
The question stung, and Wilhelm didn’t answer. At this point, he wasn’t sure whether to play a downed American, but it really no longer mattered: Whether the old man thought they were deserters or Allied aviators, he would surely alert authorities as soon as he could hike to a telephone. But he was an innocent civilian, merely protecting his property. Shooting him was out of the question.
Hagan rose from his crouch, Colt now held with one hand. “All right,” he said in German, “I guess we need to get moving.”
Wilhelm reached down and picked up the man’s rifle. He and Hagan couldn’t leave a long-range weapon in the hands of someone who might take shots at them.
“Who are you people?” the man demanded.
“I told you,” Wilhelm said. “We are trying to make our way back to our unit. As a
matter of security to the Fatherland, you should forget you ever saw us.”
Very little chance of that, Wilhelm thought. The old man will surely tell someone. If the SS brings dogs, the animals will identify our scent here and follow it. We will leave tracks in the snow, too, unless it snows a lot harder and covers them.
Wilhelm felt events closing in on him, much the way ocean swells could converge and form a rogue wave. Those mountains of water had tossed his U-boat like a toy. Crewmen could only hold on and pray; they would either survive or not, and there was little they could do about it.
“Hagan,” Wilhelm said. “I hate to do this, but we should tie him up.”
“Yeah,” the Yank said, “I guess you’re right.”
Hagan hurried around the cabin, gathering up gear. He grabbed a jar of tomatoes from the cupboard and stuffed it into his knapsack. Then he pulled a length of parachute cord from the knapsack and handed the cord to Wilhelm.
Wilhelm pulled a chair from the table and placed it in the middle of the room. “Sir,” he said, “please have a seat.”
The old man didn’t move.
“Get in the chair!” Hagan shouted. He pointed his handgun. The old man glared as he took his seat.
Wilhelm jammed his Luger into his waistband. Tied the man’s hands behind the back of the chair, then tied his feet to the chair’s front legs. He took care not to pull the bonds so tightly that they’d cut off circulation. He knew that kindness would cost them: The man would eventually free himself. But perhaps this would delay him long enough to give them a chance to escape.
When he finished the last knot, Wilhelm went to his room, found his American pistol belt, and buckled it on. Wrapped up the parachute silk that had served as a blanket. Tucked the rifle into the crook of his arm. Then he and Hagan left the cabin. Wilhelm did not look back at the old man, shouting curses at them as they departed.
Snow fell harder now. Flakes collected in the curls of fallen leaves, and ice pellets mixed with the snow. The ice made ticking sounds as it struck Wilhelm’s jacket, and the pellets stirred the lake surface with endless tiny ripples.
“Let’s just keep to the woods,” Wilhelm said. “It doesn’t matter which way we go, except away from here.”
“Yeah,” Hagan answered, “I’m sure he’ll head for the nearest phone as soon as he works himself loose.”
The two men followed the shoreline until the lake narrowed at a cove. A wooded hillside rose from the opposite shore, and a narrow stream spilled into the lake at the cove’s tip. As they splashed across the stream, Wilhelm noticed ice forming in the still pools. A dusting of snow covered each crust of ice.
Cold began to seep through Wilhelm’s jacket. He did not relish the thought of another night out in the wilderness, but he saw no other option. Navigating the straits between German and Allied lines presented plenty of danger even in ideal conditions. With the added threat of freezing to death, the task seemed impossible. The fugitives could only take one day at a time—one hour at a time, really.
The Yank led the way up the forested rise. As they trekked deeper into the timber, Wilhelm forced his mind onto any train of thought except the cold. He tried to recall more of Captain Slocum’s adventures on his sail around the world. The wily old sea dog spread carpet tacks across his deck when he slept in hostile harbors. That way, the yelps of barefoot pirates would wake him in time to fight back.
Slocum recorded no encounter that forced him to kill—a record Wilhelm now envied. The American sailor glided into his home port unblooded, though not without a reminder of man’s propensity for killing. While Slocum sailed on his voyage of peace and self-discovery, the Spanish-American war broke out. Just north of the equator, he spotted the mast and flags of the battleship Oregon. Her signals queried, “Are there any men-of-war about?” Slocum signaled no, and the Oregon steamed on its way.
And in those waters near the equator, Wilhelm thought, Slocum would have been warm. Deliciously warm.
Wilhelm willed his mind onto other bearings. After all, he’d begun thinking of Slocum’s journey on the Spray expressly to avoid dwelling on the cold. And he reminded himself not to get too envious of Captain Joshua Slocum, given the old mariner’s eventual fate. In 1909, he set sail on the Spray for another voyage, and he was never seen again.
Dusk descended before the men made three kilometers, and the snow never let up. The evening brought a heavy quiet; Wilhelm heard neither bark nor engine—and no shouts or shots or anything else to suggest pursuers on their trail. But he knew not to take comfort in that. Eventually, the old man would alert authorities. The only question was how long the cord would hold him.
The light among the trees turned violet as night came on. When the ticking sounds stopped, Wilhelm knew the ice pellets had given way to pure snow. Maybe the snow would erase their tracks. He felt flakes caressing his face like frozen feathers, and he began to shiver. The men finally stopped when it became too dark to find their way through the forest.
“Still got your flashlight?” Hagan asked in English.
“Yes,” Wilhelm said, “but its batteries are weak.”
“All right. I’ll make this as quick as I can. Gimme some light, and I’ll rig up a little tent to keep the snow off us.”
Wilhelm wished the Yank had thought of that before the daylight ran out—but then changed his mind. They’d probably made best use of visibility by getting as much distance from the cabin as possible. He took the flashlight from his jacket pocket and thumbed the switch. The light cast a pale yellow beam hardly bright enough to penetrate two meters of the darkness.
“Probably the last use we’ll get out of that thing,” the Yank said. He kicked through snow-covered leaves, apparently looking for something. Found a crooked branch, tossed it aside.
“What do you need?” Wilhelm asked.
“A fairly straight stick.”
Wilhelm joined Hagan in shuffling through the decaying leaves and other detritus on the forest floor. Just as he found a branch that might answer for the task, the flashlight’s beam faded completely.
“Oh, great,” Hagan said.
With overcast hiding the moon, the woods turned black as bilgewater. Wilhelm heard Hagan pulling at his clothing, perhaps opening pockets. The Yank muttered curses, fumbled in the dark. Then Wilhelm heard the rattle of matchsticks and the rasp of a match strike.
Hagan’s face appeared in the smoky flare of the match.
“Take these,” he said. Handed the matchbox to Wilhelm—the same matches they’d taken days ago from the dead man by the river. “Let’s try not to use too many.”
The Yank shook out the match held between his thumb and forefinger. By feel, Wilhelm took another from the box and lit it. Working by the light of the second match, Hagan opened his pack and found parachute cord. Just as the American reached for the straight branch Wilhelm had found, the match burned down close to Wilhelm’s fingers. He felt the heat, shook out the match, and dropped it. By the time he lit another, Hagan had begun lashing the branch to a tree trunk. When that match burned down, he shook it out and lit yet another. Now Hagan was spreading out parachute silk.
The effect was like watching a motion picture with frames missing. Each match gave Hagan enough illumination to start a small task such as tying a knot. The Yank would complete the task in darkness, then begin the next step by the light of a fresh match. Effective enough, Wilhelm noted, but they burned through their limited matches at a spendthrift’s pace. When Hagan finished staking out the corners of the makeshift pup tent, only two sticks remained in the matchbox.
“Might as well save those two,” Hagan said. “We can eat in the dark.”
The Yank took more parachute cloth from his knapsack, and Wilhelm ducked into the pup tent and put down the rifle he’d taken from the old man. With parachute cloth, Hagan and Wilhelm wrapped themselves against the cold as best they could. Wilhelm heard clinks of glass as Hagan opened the jar of cooked tomatoes he’d taken from the cabin. A few seconds later,
Hagan handed over the jar. Working by feel, Wilhelm fished a tomato from the jar and ate using his fingers. The tomato had little taste, but it was better than nothing, and Wilhelm liked the way the seeds popped between his molars.
“How far do you think we will get?” Wilhelm asked, wiping his fingers on his trousers. He still worried about dogs and scent trails.
“Your guess is good as mine,” Hagan said in his own language. “We made it this far.”
“I do not take much comfort in that,” Wilhelm said, also in English. “I do not believe we have an endless supply of luck.”
“Me neither. And like I said, you gotta learn to talk like an American if I’m gonna pass you off as my navigator. Use your contractions. You don’t take much comfort in that.”
Affecting an American accent seemed a hopeless task to Wilhelm, but he supposed it might help pass the time.
“I don’t know,” Wilhelm said. Tried to flatten his vowels.
“Better. All right, let’s try some Americanisms.”
“Like what?”
“Lemme think.” The Yank paused for a moment. “Well, there’s one,” he said. “Say ‘lemme think.’ ”
“Let me think.”
“No. Drop the T and run the words together like you’ve just had two beers.”
Wilhelm groaned. “Lemme think,” he said.
“A little better.” Hagan paused again. “All right, how about this. Say ‘Get your hands off me, you goose-stepping Kraut bastard. ’ ”
“That is not funny.”
“It’s not meant to be. It might save your life. Try it.”
Wilhelm repeated the sentence. Attempting the accent made him feel like a bad actor in an amateur play.
“Not real convincing,” Hagan said. “Try it again.”
Wilhelm repeated the line once more. It didn’t sound right, so he said, “Let me hear you say it again.”
The Yank uttered the sentence, and Wilhelm tried to mimic him.
