by Homer Hickam
“Stop yelling,” Krebs growled, “and go away. I’m still on leave.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Max said and grasped Krebs beneath his arms and heaved him to his feet. “Your leave was over two weeks ago. Pull yourself together.”
“Did you kiss your wife for me?” Krebs asked solicitously while trying to get his legs to work.
Max recoiled from Krebs’s breath, which stank of cheap wine. “Time to talk later, sir. We have to get you ready to meet the admiral.”
“Tell him to come here,” Krebs blared.
“I don’t think that would be wise,” Max answered. “If the Admiral came here and saw you this way, he might take you for a drunk.”
“Then he would know the true me.”
“What has happened to you, sir?”
“Nothing. Everything. Leave me alone.”
Sighing, Max put Krebs’s arm around his shoulder and supported him. “Come on, let’s get a start on your cleanup.”
Behind the guesthouse was a garden courtyard with a hand-operated water pump. Max half-dragged Krebs to it. “Stick your head under the spout,” he ordered.
Krebs silently knelt and accepted the stream of icy water over his head while Max vigorously pumped. “For God’s sake,” Max complained. “This isn’t for my exercise. The idea is for you to wash your face!”
Krebs’s head sank to the rotten boards beneath the spout. The cold water had somewhat revived him, which was something he didn’t want. “This is a direct order, Max,” he said. “Find me another bottle. I can’t be allowed to sober up until we get back aboard the U-560 and at sea. If I do, I’ll probably desert.”
“First, you must go and see the admiral,” Max answered. “Then you can desert if that’s what you want. I would be the last to stop you.”
Max dragged Krebs to his feet and walked him back to his room, sat him down, then drew a bath. After the tub was filled, he found Krebs lying on the bed, his arm thrown over his eyes. He had gone to sleep. “No, you don’t, sir,” Max said, and forced him awake and into the tub. He grabbed a sponge and tossed it to Krebs. “Wash!”
Max sat outside the bathroom on a hard wooden chair and listened for sounds of washing. When they stopped, he peeked inside. Krebs threw the sponge at him. “I don’t need a nursemaid!”
When Krebs emerged, naked and dripping, Max found a towel and gave it to him. After much fumbling and complaining, Krebs managed to get himself dry, then dressed in a blue naval uniform that badly needed pressing. He then stood unsteadily for Max’s inspection. Max took a look and shook his head. “Your beard looks like it could harbor mice.”
Krebs tugged at the tangled, reddish brown bush. “I have decided to look like a Viking.” Then he noticed something about Max. “You’ve shaved off your beard.”
“Giesela said I looked ridiculous in it,” Max replied stiffly.
“She was right.”
Max made Krebs turn around and then shook his head. “Where’s your leather jacket?”
“I have no idea.”
Max made a search through a pile of dirty clothing and found it near the bottom. “Put it on. At least it isn’t wrinkled.”
Krebs did, then squinted at Max. “You are the best executive officer a U-boat captain ever had,” he said with real affection. “But you are betraying me, Max. You see, I need to stay drunk.”
Max saw that Krebs wasn’t kidding. “Look, be serious. You must tell me what’s happened to you!”
“I’ve not had enough to drink, that’s all.”
“I tell you what, sir. I’ll buy you some more wine. I’ll even drink it with you. But now you must go and see Doenitz.”
“Screw him and screw you, too, Max.”
“Yes, sir.” Max pointed toward the broken door. “Hang on to my arm. Just walk. That’s it. Look at you, grimacing from your knee. Did you see a doctor at all?”
“No. I don’t need knees to sink ships.”
“I thought you were going to desert.”
“Did I not tell you to get screwed?”
Max was at least pleased that there was still a spark of life in his captain. “One foot in front of the other,” he ordered. “Come on. March!”
Krebs grimaced with each step. As they turned onto one of Brest’s cobbled streets, an enlisted man lurched past them, his hat shoved to the back of his head. He held a half-empty wine bottle in his hand. “Officers are shitheads!” he shouted. Laughter erupted from other submariners lounging against a brick wall. Then they joined in. “Screw all officers!”
“I see the men are in a good mood,” Krebs growled.
“Well, they’re drunk.”
“God bless them, then.” Krebs suddenly absorbed where they were going. “Is it just me our grand Befehlshaber der Unterseeboote wishes to see?”
“I heard five other captains are coming, sir. They are all Type Nine commanders. You’re the only Type Seven as far as I know. The Chief said it was concerning a special assignment.”
“Type Nines? The big boys! We are in august company, Max.”
“Our U-560 may be smaller, but no boat can match her for durability,” Max responded.
“Oh, yes, durable is one thing we are,” Krebs replied in a sarcastic tone.
The Ninth Flotilla headquarters building was a grim stone fortress that had once housed the French harbormaster. For all practical purposes, the harbor and the dockyard had become German property in 1940. The guard at the front door brought his rifle up to full port as Max helped Krebs up the steps. “Excuse me, sir,” the guard said to Krebs. “Do you have orders to enter?”
“They’re with me!” came a deep voice from behind them. Max and Krebs turned to see Kapitänleutnant Plutarch Froelich coming up the steps. “Max, you’ve done your good deed for the day. Go on, I’ll take the bastard from here.”
“Would you please stop shouting?” Krebs croaked. His hangover was making a comeback.
Froelich laughed and slapped Krebs on the back, nearly knocking him down the steps. Froelich hauled him up with an iron hand on his shoulder. “Come on, man. We don’t want to keep Uncle Karl waiting, do we?”
“Be gentle with him, sir,” Max pleaded. “He’s had a rough go.”
“I can take good care of a drunk,” Froelich answered in a hearty voice. “Loads of experience. I’ve been one myself often enough!”
“Yes, sir.” Max took another look at Krebs and flicked imaginary lint off the lapel of his leather jacket. “Good luck, Kaleu.”
“Don’t forget to have a bottle waiting for me,” Krebs grumbled.
“What an odd duck you are, Otto von Krebs,” Froelich said, laughing.
Once inside the headquarters, Krebs was surrounded by all the trappings of the Kriegsmarine in occupied France. There was an efficient buzz about the place with men in gold braid in abundance. In the anteroom to the flotilla commander’s office, four other U-boat captains waited in nervous anticipation as Froelich and Krebs entered. “What do you make of it, Plutarch?” Kapitän Simon Vogel demanded of Froelich. Krebs had never cared much for Vogel. He was a nasty little piece of work with a goatee. He was also a rarity amongst U-boat commanders, an avid Nazi. It was said that each morning his men were required to sing a hymn to Adolf Hitler. He had even demanded that the Hitler salute be given aboard his U-boat until one of his men had gotten carried away and nearly punched Vogel’s eye out with a stiffened arm in the tight confines. Krebs snickered quietly to himself, recalling the story.
“We’re all to be demoted for associating with this Type Seven character, sir,” Froelich said to Vogel, nodding toward Krebs.
“You look a bit unsteady, Krebs,” Vogel said. “Are you drunk?”
“Not enough.”
“If Doenitz thinks you’re drunk, he’ll have you shot. You’d best make an attempt to sober up!”
“Shot? Delightful. There will be plenty to drink in heaven.”
Kapitänleutnant Fabian Hoessel chuckled nervously. “You’re a U-boat skipper, Krebs
. Heaven’s not your destination. Like the rest of us, you’re bound for hell.”
“Some would say we’re already there,” Krebs wearily replied.
“Perhaps, but to see a tanker burst into flames . . . ,” Froelich said.
“And hear the bulkheads collapse as it sinks . . . ,” Kapitänleutnant Gerhardt Friedeberg added.
Vogel grunted. “To imagine that syphilitic Churchill getting the morning tally of our victories . . .” He stroked his goatee as if he had a vision of the roly-poly prime minister naked and turning on a spit.
“The cheers of the men when at last we make a score . . . ,” Hoessel rhapsodized.
“You are all mad,” Froelich laughingly accused them all, including himself.
The door to the office swung open. A naval staff officer, all tricked up in gold braid, stepped outside. “The admiral will see you now. This way, gentlemen.”
If Krebs wasn’t sober before, he was now. Even he had to admit he was scared of Doenitz. He took care to be exceptionally steady as he walked into the den of the man who feasted alike on English ships and German U-boat officers.
17
Rear Admiral Karl Doenitz waited for the six U-boat commanders behind a desk covered with stacks of folders. His expression was at once composed and inquisitive. There were upholstered chairs around the desk but no one dared to presume to sit in one. It was said even Adolf Hitler was a little cautious around his intense U-boat admiral. Krebs supposed that might explain the Führer’s lack of enthusiasm for U-boats, even though they had provided Germany with her best and perhaps only chance to win the war.
“Gentlemen,” Doenitz said in his high-pitched, nasal voice. “Are you well?”
The captains all stumbled over their answer except Vogel, who said, “We are ready to fight for the fatherland, sir. The Führer continues to inspire.”
Doenitz nodded, but said, “Inspiration doesn’t sink ships, Vogel. Torpedoes do. I could use a few more U-boats to carry them.”
Vogel rocked in his shoes, which squeaked. He looked as if he had a retort but then thought better of it.
Doenitz drummed his fingers on the ink blotter, then darted his small, dark eyes at Krebs and apparently didn’t like what he saw. “Well, Krebs. You look like shit.”
“I feel like shit, too, sir,” Krebs shot back.
Doenitz cracked a smile that split his thin face nearly to his big, flapping ears. “The commander with the sure touch. That’s what they call you, don’t they? You’re a shifty one, Krebs. I’m keeping my eye on you.”
“That is a comfort, sir,” Krebs replied.
Doenitz’s smile faded. “I wish I had more like you, Krebs, even with your smart mouth. You’re a bastard who loves to sink ships. God, if I only had another five hundred boats and more Krebses to command them, I could have won this war already!”
Krebs didn’t know what to say so he mumbled his thanks. Then Doenitz began a rant all of them had heard before. If only Berlin would build more U-boats! Krebs listened and felt a great desire to be drunk again. Before he’d gone off on his binge, he’d at least managed to get Harro transferred to his boat. That’s what Miriam had wanted. Now, the boy and he would share the same fate, whatever it was.
Doenitz moved on to the situation now that the Americans were in the war. They are a soft nation with no stomach for battles, Doenitz insisted. Krebs believed the admiral was wrong. The Americans had acquitted themselves well in the Great War. After all, hadn’t their doughboys chased the German army out of Belleau Wood and pummeled them on a dozen other French battlegrounds? Krebs had never bought into the notion that the Americans were weak and soft. Disorganized perhaps, prone to pacifism, yes, but they were capable soldiers and sailors once they got into a scrap. Of course, it took time for them to work up to it. That was the key. If you wanted to beat them, Americans had to be hit early and hard and never allowed to recover.
Doenitz started complaining about the treatment he had recently received from the high command in Berlin. It was even money on which crowd Doenitz had less respect for—the stupid Americans, the stubborn Englishmen, or what he openly called “the posturing fools in Berlin.” Krebs wondered if he was including the Führer himself in that circle. But Doenitz did not elaborate. Krebs glanced at Vogel and found him looking sour. It pleased Krebs to see it.
Doenitz, through with his harangue, beckoned the commanders to a large planning table where he unrolled a chart showing the eastern coastline of Canada, the United States, and Mexico, plus the Caribbean islands. They were sectioned in grid squares that Doenitz himself had devised. Krebs allowed himself a moment to admire a man who had partitioned the entire planet to his own coordinates. What, he wondered, does such a man imagine, that perhaps the world was his to conquer?
The admiral placed a finger on the chart and moved it like a bony stiletto down the American east coast. His eyes were bright. “Gentlemen, here are the most congested sea-lanes in the world. Almost all of the oil the United States requires for domestic consumption and military use is transported along them. If we can stop that movement, America is essentially out of the war. Her cities will freeze, her factories will close, and her armies will be isolated. Your six boats have been chosen for an operation to be called Paukenschlag. Do you know what that term means?”
Froelich responded, “It is the orchestral equivalent of a climax. A roll of drums, a clash of cymbals. Boom, crash.”
Doenitz nodded. “Very good, Plutarch. I have carefully chosen the name of this operation because it could be a climactic one.” He looked at each man, peering into their eyes. When his gaze fell on him, Krebs came to attention. All of the six did. Doenitz had that effect on you. Krebs had the sudden insight that here was a man more dangerous than even the “fools in Berlin.” While they were posturing idiots who believed themselves to be savants, Doenitz was actually a true genius with enormous ambition.
“Your orders are simple,” he continued in his reedy voice. “Proceed to the American coast and sink every freighter and tanker that passes before your torpedo tubes. And woe to the man who comes back to me empty-handed! Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir!” they all answered in unison.
“Good. Now, where do you think you should put yourselves? Captain Vogel? What say you?”
“Here, sir,” Vogel answered confidently, pointing to the grid square that encompassed Long Island. “I should set up on the approaches to New York Harbor. It is the busiest of all the ports along the American coast.”
“Very good,” Doenitz said. “I would do the same.”
Vogel allowed himself a quick smile. To receive a “very good” from Doenitz was at least as desirable as a Knight’s Cross. Of course, all the captains had more than one of those medals already, with clusters.
Doenitz put icing on Vogel’s cake. “Captain Vogel, you shall be in charge of Paukenschlag. Make tactical decisions based on your observations, place the boats where you will. Keep me informed, of course.”
Vogel smiled. “I appreciate your confidence in me, sir.”
“Then give me numbers, Vogel. Tons and tons sunk beneath the waves.”
“It shall be done.”
Krebs was still studying the chart. His finger touched the map, then slid along it until it lingered. Vogel used his new authority. “Captain Krebs? Do you have anything to share?”
Krebs quickly withdrew his finger and clasped his hands behind his back. “Nothing, sir.”
Doenitz nodded to each of his commanders in turn. “You are dismissed. Sailing orders will be delivered to your boats. Captain Vogel, you may further meet with your captains in the briefing room.” Doenitz waved toward the foyer. “Leutnant Mittel will show you to it.”
“Just Krebs, sir,” Vogel said. “He’s never been under my command. The others know how I work.”
“Very well. Good hunting, gentlemen!”
In the foyer, Froelich gave Krebs a nudge as if to wish him luck. “Come, Captain Krebs,” Vogel said. His voice
was somehow threatening. Krebs already detested the man and they’d never shared more than a few words.
The briefing room was dominated by a long, polished table surrounded by dark leather chairs. At the head of the table above a marble fireplace was a huge oil painting of Adolf Hitler, looking angry and determined. He was in a brown uniform, unadorned except for a red armband with a black swastika within a white circle. Vogel took the chair beneath the painting and indicated that Krebs should be seated beside him. Krebs chose to seat himself several chairs away.
Vogel watched him sit. “Of course, I knew in advance about this mission and have been giving it a great deal of thought,” he said. “I believe Admiral Doenitz has created a brilliant plan, but I wonder if even he realizes the implications of it. I have come to believe that the success of Paukenschlag may determine the fate of us all. Do you love the admiral, Krebs?”
Krebs had no idea how to answer such a question. “I admire him, sir,” was the best he could do.
“As do we all. He is a genius and a great patriot. Almost single-handedly, he has created our magnificent underseas force.” Vogel eyed Krebs, as if gauging the impact of his comment, then went on, “Did you have a good leave, Krebs?”
“It was tolerable,” Krebs answered.
“Tell me about it. I like to hear personal details about my men.”
“I stayed drunk most of the time and screwed at least fifty whores,” Krebs replied.
“Really? On Nebelsee? I did not realize there were so many whores on such a small island. Perhaps one or two . . .” Vogel consulted the folder. “A Miriam Hauptmann, perhaps?”
Krebs stood. “Listen, you nasty piece of work. I should break you in two just for saying her name.”
“Calm yourself, Captain. I was just responding to what you said, after all. Forgive me. Please be seated.”
Krebs sat. “Why did you have me investigated?” he demanded.
“I didn’t. Admiral Doenitz did. He wanted to be absolutely certain that he was choosing the best commanders for the job.” Vogel tapped the folder. “I would say your tragic experience on Nebelsee might have made you a bit unstable.” He sighed. “But, for now, I will adopt the admiral’s opinion of you as my own.”
