The Keeper's Son

by Homer Hickam

Although they rarely discussed the situation at hand, one afternoon Max asked, “What do you think Vogel has in mind for us, sir?” At the time, he and Krebs were dining on something that had perked up their spirits, fresh Gulf Stream wahoo caught by the cook and fried in flour, supplemented by one of the last bottles of Krebs’s personal stock of wine.

  Since Krebs was feeling fairly expansive with the tasty fish in his stomach and more than a drink or two of the wine, he said, “I believe it has something to do with terror.”

  Max didn’t understand and said so. Krebs took another long swig of wine straight from the bottle, then poured some in Max’s mug. “He wants to accomplish something spectacular, that’s all I can tell you,” Krebs said.

  Max sifted the answer through his brain, a bit fogged due to the high alcohol content of Krebs’s special wine. “Kaleu, let’s head back,” he urged. “We have a sick drive shaft. It’s excuse enough.”

  Krebs shook his head, then upended the bottle and finished it off. He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “Not yet, Max. We have our duty to accomplish.”

  “I doubt that our concept of duty compared to Vogel’s would be a close match.”

  Krebs could not argue with Max’s opinion so he didn’t bother. “Well, there it is” was all he said. He balanced the empty bottle in the palm of his hand and considered it. “I wonder if we could convince that woman who shot at us from the island to buy us a few bottles of wine?”

  Max laughed. “I doubt it. She does not seem to have a high opinion of us.”

  Krebs laughed, too, and it felt good to do it.

  “It was a beautiful island,” Max went on, staring at the steel bulkhead in front of him as if it were a window. “I should have liked to walk its beaches.”

  Krebs took on a distant expression as well, as if he were seeing the island on the other side of the tiny tower control room. “It reminded me a bit of Nebelsee. Miriam would have liked it.” Because he was feeling warm and generous, Krebs drew out the chain that held her cross. “This is all I have of her.”

  “I wondered what you were wearing,” Max said. “I could see the chain but not the pendant.”

  “Miriam designed it,” Krebs replied, suffused with pride.

  “It’s beautiful. And most unusual, if I may say so.”

  Harro poked his head through the hatch. “Coded message just in from BdU, sirs.”

  “I’ll be right down, Harro,” Max said. As the executive officer, one of his duties was to go through the laborious effort of decoding transmissions on the Enigma machine in the main control room. The machine required setting wheels to a code, then turning them for each letter.

  Harro started to drop below but noticed a golden shimmer against Krebs’s shirt. “Miriam’s cross,” he said. Then his eyes widened as he realized he had said something of a familiar nature to the exalted captain. “I beg your pardon, sir.”

  Max eased past Harro on the ladder. “Go on, boy. Have a word with the captain if you like. He’s in a talkative mood.”

  “Permission to come up, sir?” Harro nervously asked Krebs.

  Krebs replaced the cross beneath his shirt, then gestured with a wave of his hand. “Come.”

  Harro squatted near Krebs, as near as an enlisted man dared to be to the captain of his U-boat. “I want you to know something,” Krebs said. “I’m proud of the way you’ve handled yourself aboard my boat.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “In a way, I suppose you and I, we’re nearly family. Like stepbrothers.”

  Harro didn’t know what to say to that so he didn’t say anything, although he felt very proud.

  Krebs smiled. “Don’t let it go to your head. I’ll still let the Chief skin you alive if you foul up.”

  Harro looked relieved. “Thank you, Captain. Permission to go back to duty, sir?”

  “First, give me a rundown of those duties.”

  “Yes, sir. Sending and receiving of radio traffic, coding and decoding radio messages, and using the hydrophone devices.”

  “What else?”

  “Well, we have the medical kit and we also make entries into the daily log.”

  “Are you proficient with the wireless key?”

  “Not yet. But I’m working on it every day.”

  “Practice will make perfect. On your way, Harro.”

  The boy disappeared through the hatch and Krebs leaned back against the cold, gray steel of the bulkhead. Every minute seemed an hour, every hour a day. He prayed that the message Max was decoding was something that would send the U-560 somewhere—it almost didn’t matter where as long as it was anywhere else. After what seemed an interminable age, he climbed below to see how Max was doing. Max looked up from the decoding machine on the navigator’s table. “Well?” Krebs demanded.

  Max pushed a paper across the tiny desk. “Looks like more U-boats are coming across.”

  “But nothing for us?”

  “No.”

  Krebs sat down heavily on the couch and, in case any of the men were noting his reaction, did his level best to look bored and not, in any way, agitated. Inside, however, he was seething. He heard the rumble of a marine engine and then the dull swish of the propellers of what sounded like a small freighter passing overhead. He briefly considered surfacing and chasing her down, boarding her, and opening the sea cocks to scuttle her. But, no, it would use up valuable fuel.

  “Another message, sir,” Harro said, bringing in the coded text.

  “I’ll take this one,” Krebs said, just for something to do. Max moved over and let Krebs position himself behind the Enigma. Krebs worked for a few minutes, writing down each letter as it was produced. Finally, he had it. He allowed himself a brief smile. Immediately, whispers went all through the boat. The captain has decoded a message and is smiling!

  “Well, Max, this is the one we’ve been waiting for,” Krebs said, after allowing Max to grind his teeth a bit. Ears close to the hatches of the control room perked up.

  “Back across the Atlantic?” Max asked without any real hope.

  “No. Something much more interesting. We’re to catch a whale.”

  37

  Keeper Jack, Buckets O’Neal, and Hook Mallory leaned on their shovels and surveyed the makeshift cemetery behind the lighthouse grounds. So many dead merchant sailors had washed ashore, it was impossible to wait for the ferry to transport them across the sound. Until help could come, the bodies would be buried there. Doc accomplished what identification could be done and kept a record on each man for the authorities whenever they might show up. To date, there seemed little interest on the part of Morehead City to do anything although Chief Glendale continued to call in the daily body count of poor, drowned merchant sailors found on the beach.

  Josh, Bosun Phimble, and most of the Maudie Janes including Marvin came walking across the sand hills for the service. Amy Guthrie and the women from the fish market in their leather aprons gathered around. Preacher, in his long black coat, stood clutching his Bible. Dosie and Rex came riding up from the beach, rifles slung on their backs. Queenie O’Neal led a contingent of Whalebone City ladies, all wearing black armbands. Chief Glendale drove the jeep and Doc Folsom and Purdy the pelican rode with him. Overhead, gulls wheeled and banked and called their high-pitched yelps above the everlasting rumble of the Atlantic and the low whistle of the never-ending breeze. The skies were overcast, a watery light drenching the makeshift cemetery.

  Atop a sand hill stood Willow and Jezzie. Willow was not looking at the gathering at the graveyard but out to sea. Jezzie stamped at the sand, then quieted.

  Preacher was bareheaded, his long brown hair wild in the wind. When the assembly was fully gathered, he asked for a bowing of heads and began speaking in a fierce tone:

  “Dear Lord God Almighty, what is there to say except to quote your own good Book, that which you bid to be written down in the Psalms? ‘Those who go down to the sea in ships, who do business on great waters; They see the works of the Lord, and His w
onders in the deep. They cry out to the Lord in their trouble, and He brings them out of their distress. He calms the storm so that its waves are still, and so he guides them to their haven.’ ”

  Preacher clutched his Bible and shook his head. “But these men you did not guide to a haven. Though they cried out, no storm was calmed, and neither were any waves stilled. The Germans raised hell while You watched and these poor men drowned. What are we to make of this?”

  Preacher petulantly kicked at the sand. “I have to hand it to you, Lord. I am lost from your thoughts these days, and your ways. We need help, Lord, and that’s what I’m saying as best I can.”

  Amy Guthrie came over and put her hand on Preacher’s arm. Her touch seemed to calm him, although he started to weep. Keeper Jack cleared his throat. “Now, Preacher, those are good words, but might I say a few as well?”

  Preacher hung his head and nodded. Tears dripped off his nose. He dropped his Bible. Amy picked it up and then kept patting his arm.

  Josh had gone over to stand by Dosie, who remained astride Genie. She reached down and playfully ran her hand through his hair. He held her hand briefly, then let it go. She was smiling, just a little.

  Keeper Jack said, “These merchant seamen did not wish to die. But we must remember that to God our bodies are only temporary. It is our souls that are eternal. I’m certain these men had faith in God and they reside with Him now and that’s all we need to know. Preacher here is having a trial of faith, you might say.” Preacher raised his head at that, then lowered it again. “I guess we all might have our own trials of faith before this is over. It’s hard to believe God would let a thing like this happen. But we trust things will work out according to His plan and we’ll just do what we can in the meantime.” The Keeper cast his eyes around the group until they landed on Josh. “Josh, do you have something to say?”

  Josh felt the eyes of the assembly move to him. “Up on the Bering Sea,” he said, “one of my men kind of rewrote the Twenty-third Psalm. I always admired it and I think it might be good to say it here and now over these poor men. It went more or less like this: ‘The Lord is my Skipper, I shall not drift. He guides me across the dark waters. He steers me through the channels. He keeps my log. Yea, though I sail amidst the tempests of the sea, I shall keep my wits about me. His strength is my shelter. He prepareth a quiet harbor before me. Surely the sun and the stars shall guide me and I will come to rest in heaven’s port forever.’ ”

  Eureka Phimble, his wife, Talkie, on his arm and his little boy, Josiah, holding his hand, said, “One thing you all need to know. The Maudie Jane is out there every day and we’ve been chasing those U-boats as hard as we can. We’re going to get one of them Germans, too, don’t think we won’t.”

  “You boys get ’em!” Buckets said fiercely.

  Keeper Jack had something else to say. He pointed at the grave of his wife. “Folks, you’ll note there’s a little headstone beside Trudelle’s resting place. It’s for my son Jacob. Just as these men, Jacob met his fate on the waters of our Father who is known as the Atlantic Ocean. We know he is in heaven with his mother, and the stone beside her grave is a mark of that.”

  The Keeper looked across the graves at Josh. Dosie, still on Genie, had her hand on Josh’s shoulder. Josh’s face was stricken. “God bless you, Son, for all that you’re doing for us out there against them damn submarines. If all that I’ve said today constitutes a prayer, then I’m going to say amen.”

  “Amen,” the assembly said in response.

  “Amen,” Josh also said, and just like that, he felt free. His father and Bosun Phimble had been right. Although Jacob wasn’t really there, the headstone by his mother’s grave had been what Josh needed to finally let his brother go.

  But then a movement down the beach caught Josh’s eye. Willow had climbed aboard Jezzie and was looking hard in his direction. It shook him a little and he didn’t quite know what to make of it.

  38

  Its crew called their Type Fourteen submarine a Milchkuh, but to Krebs, the supply submarine reminded him of a big, fat whale. Whatever it was called, it was well designed for its mission. Within three hours of rendezvous, its crew had filled the U-560 with diesel fuel and sent across four torpedoes and a dozen cans of eighty-eight-millimeter rounds. Next came crates of fresh food, and above all else in importance to the crew, three sacks of mail. The men kept making excuses to tuck up to the tower control room, just to eye the sacks while the Chief stood guard over them. “Soon enough, children,” he said to each of them, although truth be told, he was as anxious as all the rest to dig into the letters.

  Vogel’s boat sat nearby, after completing its own provisioning. The stubby Kapitän was apparently below, probably consulting with the officer who had come off the supply submarine and crossed over in a raft. The officer had worn the green-and-brown uniform of the Marine-Infanterie. The marines were used primarily as guards on naval bases. Krebs expected to be called by Vogel at any moment to cross over and receive orders, and perhaps then he would discover the purpose of a German marine officer off the coast of the United States. Even as he speculated what that purpose might be, the signal lamp on Vogel’s U-boat flashed a message. Harro was on the tower to translate. “Captain Krebs, it is a request for you to come aboard, sir.”

  “Request, is it? Or a demand?”

  Harro gulped. “It says you are ordered, sir.”

  Krebs glared at Harro and watched the boy melt. “Here is your lesson for today, Radioman Stollenberg. Never change a message in any way. A single word can cause a commander to completely misinterpret important information. Do you understand?” Before Harro could reply, Krebs snapped, “Confirm receipt and say I will comply. Be damned quick about it.”

  Harro, wounded, furiously started blinking the return message. Max rolled his eyes at the exchange, knowing that Krebs was being deliberately tough on the boy in case any of the crew thought he might be playing favorites. “Chief, send up someone to take the captain across to Vogel’s boat,” Max called through the tower hatch. “Make sure they can handle a paddle.” He glanced at Krebs. “Wouldn’t want you to get swept away by the currents, Herr Kaleu.”

  A stout seaman was given permission to come up on the tower. He reported. “I will paddle you across, sir.”

  “Ready the raft,” Krebs replied, “and stand by. I want to get the report from the diver first.”

  The paddler went off to accomplish his order and Krebs went down on deck and joined the others perusing the bubbles coming up from the stern. A hard-hat diver from the supply submarine was working back there. It was the result of an idea of the Chief’s, that the persistent problem of the rattling port drive shaft might be a defect in the propeller it drove. Some of the men were also fishing. It was a pleasant day but Krebs had become all too familiar with the insidious nature of the place. He looked to the northeast and saw a few gray clouds rising along the horizon. In about three hours, he thought, there would be a heavy wind coming from that direction and a sea rapidly going to hell.

  The diver finally rose and was pulled aboard the milk cow. “Well?” Krebs called across the water after the man was led to a chair and his diving hat unbolted.

  The diver called back. “Captain, I have bad news. There is a crack in one of the blades of your portside propeller. It is approximately one-sixteenth of an inch wide, perhaps six inches long starting from the outer tip.”

  Max had joined Krebs to hear the report. “There’s probably been a hairline crack for a long time, but too small for the shipyard to see, even if they’d been looking for it. The storm coming across the Atlantic must have opened it up.”

  “So what can we do, Max?”

  “Nothing, except to baby the portside drive. The crack could easily get worse if we put a lot of pressure on it. The entire blade might shear off. Then we’d really be in shit up to our necks. If we didn’t shut it down fast enough, it might even tear the packing out and cause a flood in the stern.”

  Krebs nod
ded agreement. “You’d better let Hans know, even though it will make him even crazier.” He climbed into the raft. “You have the boat until I return, Max.”

  “I shall take good care of it, sir.”

  “Don’t leave for France without me.”

  Max didn’t reply. The thought had occurred to him, don’t think it hadn’t, a delicious but impossible proposition.

  Krebs was received in what he considered a nonchalant manner by the lookouts on Vogel’s boat. “No need to go below,” an ordinary seaman snapped when he’d climbed up on the tower. “Captain Vogel said he would come up to give you your orders. I will inform him you are here.”

  “I will inform him you are here, sir,” Krebs growled.

  The lookout shrugged. “Sir,” he added without enthusiasm, then went below. It was clear to Krebs he was not popular on this boat. Vogel must have made a habit of saying uncomplimentary things about him where anyone could hear. The other lookouts got busy with their binoculars scanning the horizon, empty of everything except the building storm clouds. Krebs, simmering at the insult, went down on the Type Nine’s deck and calmed down by looking across the water at the U-560. It was interesting to see his boat as others did. It was an ugly duckling, for certain. The rust had burst through on its tower again, the grinning white shark apparently afflicted with reddish brown measles. The crew of the supply submarine had battered the deck with one of the torpedoes during the loading, splintering some of the planks so much they had been removed and tossed into the sea. The cracked bronze of the portside propeller blade was hidden beneath the sea, but it was all part of the weariness of his old boat. At least, the interior was in good shape. With all the time available during the last two weeks of waiting around, the Chief had formed teams to scrub down the walls, grease every hinge, swab every deck, even pump out the bilges and scrub them clean. With nearly all the food eaten, the second water closet, usually used as a food locker, had been made operational, which kept the air fresher. Rotten food had been tossed. The cook had caught baskets of fresh fish every night. Except for the cold symptoms, which seemed to have run their course, the crew was in decent shape, ready for another campaign, whatever it might be.