An Honorable German

by Charles L. McCain

  “Jawohl, Herr Kaleu.”

  Cook was a good man. Before the war he had run a stall selling coffee and buns in the Munich rail station—a busy place in these last years, since the Nazi Party had its headquarters in Munich. “I saw Hitler quite often,” he had once told Max, and Max had said something polite about how thrilling that must have been. “No, not really, Herr Kaleu,” the cook replied. A true believer.

  Now Lehmann said, “I must ask permission to note my protest in the logbook, Herr Kaleu.”

  “Of course that is your right, Leutnant, but after you go off watch.” They both knew that Admiral Dönitz reviewed the logbook of every U-boat after its war patrol, so he would see that Lehmann had not agreed with what Max was doing.

  Cook collected the provisions in ten minutes and sent them up to the deck. A number of sailors threw in packs of cigarettes and matches. A good smoke could take a man’s mind off his troubles. Max maneuvered the U-boat as close as he could and Carls leaned over to pass the provisions to the Englishmen.

  “Do you have a sail in there?” he asked the young British officer. It would be the standard drill. Most of the big lifeboats had sails already attached to masts with the assemblage secured in the bottom of the boat.

  “Yes, sir. I believe we do, sir.”

  “And can you sail?”

  “Well, I don’t know, sir. I’m an engineering officer myself, Captain.”

  “You step the mast and raise the sail up, then put the tiller over and—” Max stopped himself. Here he was giving sailing lessons to a jug-eared British engineering officer in the middle of the war. “I’m sure some of your men can help you. You have a sextant and some charts as well, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And a compass?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Can you navigate?”

  “I—I believe so, sir.”

  “Very well. Then you want to steer zero twenty-two degrees, north-northeast; that will take you to England. You’ll be drinking beer in a pub in less than a fortnight.” He had to try to cheer them up, give them some hope to boost morale. Without good morale they would never make it—not in an open boat, in the North Atlantic, a thousand kilometers from England. “I would broadcast your position on the six-hundred-meter band, but then your escorts would be on me in a lightning flash.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “Good luck, then.”

  The young officer hesitated, then saluted Max. “And good luck to you, too, sir.”

  Max returned the salute, then set course for Lorient.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  LORIENT

  GERMAN-OCCUPIED FRANCE

  HEADQUARTERS, 10TH U-BOAT FLOTILLA

  NINE DAYS LATER

  29 SEPTEMBER 1943

  WATER DRIPPED FROM MAX AS HE STEPPED OUT OF THE TUB IN HIS room at Hotel Beau Séjour, which had been requisitioned from its French owners for use by the officers of the U-boat force. Four hours in the bath had soaked away the dirt and stink of the patrol. As the water drained out, it left behind a brown ring of grease inside the tub. Let the French clean it up.

  While he soaked, his trunk had been placed on the bed by a headquarters orderly and Max opened it to find his uniforms and some of the few possessions that mattered to him—his sextant, books Mareth had given him, a picture of her, a rosary from his father. Also his last will and testament, dutifully made out and notarized. U-Boat Command required a valid will from all crewmen before sailing, a practicality that did little to inspire confidence among the men. It was a sensible precaution, Max knew—Germanic, thorough, and he liked thoroughness. With casualties in the UBootwaffe over fifty percent, sailors no longer joked about making a will. Before going on a war patrol, you packed your belongings, careful to omit French postcards and indiscreet letters. One hardly wished for one’s family to discover that your most treasured correspondence was with a local fille de joie named Enchanté. Then you put your will on top, closed the lid, handed the tin trunk over to the orderly, and tried not to wonder who would open it next—you or the deceased property officer.

  Max put his will aside to save it for next time. No need to write a new one—he left everything to his father. All two thousand marks. That’s all he had in the Dresdner Bank, all he’d been able to put away, despite the raise that came with his last promotion. Since Meteor, he’d been spending every mark he earned. Why save money for a future he would never live to see?

  There was a letter to Mareth tucked into Max’s will, telling her to be brave, to go on with life, find someone else to love, have children. Noble sentiments but hard to feel with conviction. As the war went on what he mostly felt was his courage trickling down his legs like the urine he’d let go when the destroyer appeared out of the night. He was terrified of dying, of losing Mareth, of losing the small dreams they had for a life together—a house in Kiel overlooking the harbor so he could watch the ships, a gaggle of children, a dog. He clung to this fantasy all the more strongly as it receded amid the chaos of war. As for death, his acceptance of its mounting certainty did not bring a sense of peace. He only feared it more.

  Max put on a clean pair of underwear for the first time in eight weeks, then slipped into a pair of clean uniform pants. The pants were old; he’d brought them from home. He’d paid one hundred marks plus twenty clothing coupons for them before the war at Stechbarth’s in Berlin, official tailor to the forces. After pouring himself a glass of wine from the bottle on the nightstand, he took up the thick packet of letters Mareth had sent while he was at sea. She wrote him every day. There must have been fifty envelopes in the stack. He smiled as he flipped through them. The field post was free but Mareth had stamped the envelopes anyway—with stamps that showed a U-boat commander, white cap reversed, peering into a periscope. She’d written Max’s name below each one.

  He lay down on the bed and began to go through the letters, starting with the oldest. Maybe it was his naval training, or simply the Prussian blood in his veins, but he liked to do everything in its proper order. “Prussia is proud of you,” Mareth sometimes teased him.

  She prayed for him every morning in the Kaiser Wilhelm Gedächtniskirche near the Zoo Tower now, with St. Matthäus off the Tiergartenstrasse having been destroyed. All the stained glass at the Gedächtniskirche had been taken down and stored after the first bombing raids and it was dark in the church with the windows boarded up, but hundreds of candles burned, their reflections dancing on the polished wooden pews and altar. She lit a new candle for him every day. Maybe it was good that he wasn’t in Berlin now, because everyone smelled musty and damp—bathing was no longer permitted on weekdays. When he visited they could take baths together, patriotically conserving water. But he should bring the soap, preferably something French and perfumed. She’d run out of the supply she bought in Paris and all you could get in Berlin was a synthetic soap substitute that smelled terrible, left a thick scum behind on the water, and was strictly rationed besides: each person received just two ounces per month. The allotment of detergent was hardly more generous, and it was fortunate under these circumstances that the Sergeant Major had been able to send along several boxes of Persil washing powder he’d “just happened to come across in one of his storerooms.” (Max could only shake his head at that. His father probably had an entire storeroom full of the stuff.) He downed another glass of wine and felt the warmth spread through his belly. U-Boat Command provided unlimited amounts of alcohol for its sailors between war patrols, a small consolation to men living under a sentence of death.

  Max knew he couldn’t get too drunk in the room—within the hour he had to attend a dinner being laid on by the flotilla commander for the officers and crew of U-114.

  He worked his way through the pile of envelopes. Soot fell out of one. She had passed a chimney sweep on the Hohenzollernstrasse—renamed the GrafSpeestrasse now—and he let her break two small bits off his brush. She’d kept one and sent the other to Max in the hope that it might bring them luck. On
the U-Bahn last month she saw a new poster showing women how to examine their breasts for lumps every week, part of the party’s anti-cancer campaign. She would teach him to do this for her. But only if he promised to do it regularly. The twelfth letter now. He smiled at Mareth’s news and gossip: how she had stuffed her purse with rolls at a banquet given by the Spanish ambassador so she’d have something to eat later; how she was feeding ten stray cats outside her apartment building; how her father was furious with her for wasting food on the strays. She accompanied Herr von Woller to diplomatic receptions at least twice a week. Mostly they were boring but sometimes there was dancing, and Mareth loved to dance. One could only do so now at diplomatic receptions because Goebbels had banned dancing in public after the defeat at Stalingrad. At the receptions she never took any partners under the age of sixty, so Max should not be jealous, though it was true that most of the older men were lechers. His Excellency, the Swedish ambassador, had let his hand wander over her derriere during a slow waltz. She ground her heel into his foot without saying a word and the hand returned quickly to its proper position. The Croatian ambassador was even worse: he went so far as to pinch her on the bottom. She kicked him in the shin and he didn’t do it again.

  The bombing had not been so bad in recent weeks. Perhaps the British were being worn down. Perhaps they were feeling the pinch because of brave men like Max who were doing everything they could for Germany. She hoped so. She prayed so. Meanwhile, she was volunteering three nights a week for the NSV, the National Socialist People’s Welfare Organization, providing assistance to those displaced by the bombings, many of whom had lost everything and become desperate—women with small children to look after and a husband at the front. Mareth had given away most of her wardrobe so he shouldn’t expect her to be so well dressed the next time he returned on leave (though she promised she’d kept the lingerie he bought for her in Paris). She and Loremarie played Ping-Pong at least twice a week to unwind and Mareth was getting quite good. Max should be prepared for defeat next time they played.

  He stopped reading and stood to put on his shirt, tie, and blue naval tunic, now heavy with the Iron Cross First Class, black wound badge, auxiliary cruiser badge, and the U-Boat Service Medal, all pinned to the left breast of his coat The headquarters orderly had polished his knee-high black riding boots. Max knew the boots were an affectation but enjoyed wearing them all the same; most U-boat officers did, even though they were non-regulation.

  Max took the last letter off the bottom of the stack and opened it. Mareth’s writing seemed unsteady. She had used an unusual black ink. The letter began, My mother was killed last night in a bombing raid. She agreed to come to Berlin for the Foreign Minister’s birthday party at the Adlon. We were to fetch her at the apartment at 8:00. The British came over early, about 7:30, just as Papa and I were leaving his office. Just as Daniel brought Papa’s automobile, the sirens went off and the police ordered us back inside. Papa was terribly upset and we rushed to his office to telephone Mother. He said to go immediately to the bomb shelter in the far end of the cellar—that it was very safe. I spoke to her and said please not to worry, that I loved her and soon we would all be together. The police told us later that most residents of the building had properly gone to the cellar but a heavy bomb hit the back of the building and it collapsed on top of the shelter and killed everyone. Our flat had no damage except for some window panes blown in. Mother could simply have stayed in her room and would not have been harmed in the least. Max, please, please come to Berlin as soon as you can.

  He put down the letter and stared at the wall for a moment. He couldn’t remember his own mother and didn’t know what he should be feeling. He hardly knew what to feel about anything anymore. At least Mareth hadn’t been hurt, thank God. He crossed himself. It was selfish to think this way when her mother was dead, he knew, but that’s the way he felt. Besides, he had never even met Countess von Woller. He quickly piled his belongings into the suitcase and summoned the orderly, a sailor too old for sea duty who still remembered how to take orders. “When does the U-boat train leave for Kiel?”

  “At 0200, Herr Kaleu.”

  “You can get me a berth on it, yes?”

  “At once, Herr Kaleu.”

  Admiral Dönitz kept a special train that ran between the U-boat bases in France and the main base in Kiel, so Max didn’t have to be at the mercy of the Reichsbahn, grown increasingly unreliable now that the Americans were bombing every major rail yard in the Reich. Mail, supplies, torpedoes, and spare parts for the submarines were carried to and from Germany aboard the shuttling U-boat trains, along with the men of the service. Max handed the suitcase over and asked the orderly to make certain it got on the U-boat train.

  After polishing his medals in the bathroom with a damp wash-cloth and pocketing the soap for Mareth, Max made his way to the first-floor banquet room. The windows of the big room had just been replaced after the British blew them out in a nuisance raid a week ago; he could still smell the putty and paint. The tables had been positioned in a horseshoe, their starched white tablecloths hanging to the polished floor. Already his men had assembled and begun to make use of the bar.

  Heinz, the torpedo chief petty officer, saw Max first. “Achtung!” he called. Immediately the men came to rigid attention, a few of them overbalancing, already unsteady from drink. Max smiled at his crew. They weren’t such a bad lot. Clean-shaven now in their regular blue naval uniforms, they looked trim and shipshape—far better than they had looked seven hours ago when the boat had finally docked. The prewar sailors were especially trim in their short monkey jackets with double rows of brass buttons; such jackets hadn’t been issued since the war broke out. Still, everyone’s eyes were bruised from lack of sleep, faces white as chalk from being locked away in their narrow tube, only the bridge crew ever seeing the sun. To an outsider the men might appear feverish and stricken but to Max they looked good considering what they had endured. In any event, he was proud.

  “As you were,” he said.

  Immediately the drinking resumed. Most would be puking in a few hours, but they had earned it. After their first patrol Max had drunk two bottles of brandy the first night back and passed out in the officers’ club. Tonight he would spare himself because of the banquet and the train ride. A cigar was what he wanted most after five weeks without enough tobacco. Fortunately, the flotilla commander had sent a fresh tin over to him after they docked. Max pulled one from his pocket and lit it, the rich smoke filling his mouth. Damn it was good. Ferret was already sitting at the officers’ table and Max joined him. Lehmann was mingling with the men. He’d probably have them all out the next morning collecting for Winter Relief.

  Max gave Ferret a cigar. “A good patrol, Leutnant.”

  “Thank you, Herr Kaleu.”

  “Plans for your leave?”

  “Nein, Herr Kaleu.”

  Ferret never said much, a blessing on the boat but awkward on land. Was he married? Max couldn’t remember. “You will see your girlfriend soon, yes?”

  Ferret shrugged. “I just go to the officers’ rest house and have the women there, Herr Kaleu. No involvements.”

  “But the involvements make it more interesting.”

  Ferret nodded. “It’s hard to get close to a girl when you know you’re going to die soon.”

  Max puffed on the cigar to steady his features. “Well now, Leutnant, you know we have an excellent chance of surviving until the war ends.”

  “Do we, sir?” Ferret pointed to the wall at their backs. “Like them, Herr Kaleu?”

  Max turned around. The wall was lined with black-bordered portraits of the flotilla’s captains who had died in action since the war began. There wasn’t much space left. My God, Würdemann was dead? They had picked up a radio transmission from him not five days ago.

  Max thought for a moment, puffing again on his cigar. Now he knew why Langsdorff had smoked them: they gave one a few moments to think. “Ferret,” he said, trying to speak with convic
tion, “you know we have a good crew. We’ve made it through two patrols now. That’s the hardest part, getting past the first two, you know that. From now on our experience will give us the edge we need to survive.” He could hear the hollow ring in his own voice.

  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.