“That will be floe ice drifting down from north of us,” the captain said. “With this light wind, it’s certain to be scattered.”
“Shall I change course four or five degrees right, sir?”
Finlander frowned. “If our mission was merely to steam along like a passenger liner, that would be an excellent idea.” He waited for some reaction which did not come quick enough to suit him. “What is our mission, Mr. Harwell?”
“To patrol for Russian submarine activity, sir.”
“And if you were a Russian submarine commander operating under these sea conditions, what would you do, Mr. Harwell?”
“I would use the ice to screen my movements, sir.”
“Correct. As a matter of fact, don’t you think you might move closer to the Greenland coast so as to confuse any tracking destroyer’s radar and sonar sweeps?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then act accordingly, Mr. Harwell.”
“You mean move closer to the coast, sir?”
“I suggest at least ten miles closer. I also suggest a series of maximum-effect sonar sweeps.”
“Every fifteen minutes, sir?”
Finlander sighed like a teacher priming a difficult student. “Why every fifteen minutes? To help the Russian set his schedule accordingly for silent running? Come on, Mr. Harwell! Try being a little unpredictable about it.” Finlander flashed him a condescending grin, pulled up the collar of his white duffel coat and went out on the bridge. Lieutenant Harwell ordered the helmsman to bring the Bedford to a new heading which put the distant line of snow-capped mountains right over her bow. Ten minutes later he alerted the ship for a maximum-effect sonar sweep and signaled the engine room to stop engines. While the destroyer coasted silently over the lightly ruffled swells, Lieutenant Spitzer and his sonarmen intently listened and watched their PPI screens. But the surrounding deep remained as silent as it is legendarily supposed to be.
Inside the crow’s-nest a twenty-year-old seaman second-class nicknamed Squarehead (John Thorbjornsen was his improbable real name) had relieved Jones, who climbed halfway down the tube-like inside of the mainmast, there to steal a quick smoke. (This was the only safe place on the Bedford to steal a smoke on watch.) Squarehead felt the faint vibration of the engines fade out and took the opportunity to rest the objectives of his binoculars against the glass of the windshield, thus steadying them for a minute examination of the horizon. As he peered, his body remained relaxed, his jaws masticating rhythmically on a wad of gum. His sharp young eyes, made tenfold more efficient by the powerful lenses, picked out crevasses and faults in the glaciers of the Greenland mountains and noticed the shimmering line of ice beneath them; the ice looked as though it hugged the coast, but he knew it stretched out several miles beyond. Shifting the binoculars slightly, he picked another piece of the horizon for careful scrutiny. Then another. Then the jaws suddenly stopped and went slack. His body did not visibly tense, but he held his breath for about ten seconds, took his eyes from the binoculars and blinked them a couple of times before looking again. His pupils contracted to black pinpoints against the brilliant glare of the morning sunlight on the sea. He was watching a pair of skua gulls persistently circling a spot nearly two miles away. But his interest was not that of a birdwatcher. Rather he was trying to make out what interested them. Finally he communicated his suspicions to Seaman Jones, perched in the shaft below him.
“I think I got something.”
“What?”
“Garbage.”
Jones quickly tamped out his cigarette in the palm of his gloved hand and slipped the butt into a pocket of his parka so as to leave no evidence of his misdemeanor. Then he sprang up the rungs and squeezed himself into the crow’s-nest with Squarehead. “Where away?” he asked.
Space was so cramped that there was no longer room to wield the binoculars. “Zero-two-zero — about two miles. Not sure, though.”
“Well, okay. Report any sighting even if you’re not sure. Besides, you know how the skipper loves garbage.”
Squarehead nodded and reached for the telephone.
11.
In sick bay Lieutenant Commander Chester Porter had attended his first full-fledged muster of his department — which consisted of only two permanently assigned men, Chief Pharmacist’s Mate McKinley and Pharmacist Engstrom, a lanky boy with rimless glasses. However, under battle conditions eight stewards and commissary men were assigned as corpsmen and litter carriers, and it was up to him to have them trained in these, their secondary duties. This morning they all squeezed into the empty sick bay, and when Porter looked them over, he felt this was not much of a command for an officer of his rank; but he balmed his pride with the thought that, technically at least, he was chief medical officer of the 1st Destroyer Division, NATONAV 1 — which meant that the medical departments of two other destroyers, patrolling somewhere within the fifteen-thousand-square-mile area, came under his nominal control.
McKinley introduced each man to the surgeon, who then made a short speech in which he omitted the customary flattering references to his predecessor. He expressed satisfaction over the condition of the department, but stated his intentions of running some litter-carrying drills in the immediate future. After the men were dismissed from muster, one of them requested a word with him. It was Collins, the Negro steward. Porter asked him to step inside the receiving office.
“Sir, after my hitch is up, I intend to qualify for medical school,” Collins told him with a respectful but firm directness. “Lieutenant Hirschfeld has been tutoring me in pre-med subjects during off-duty time. I am wondering if the commander would kindly do the same.”
The surgeon was taken by surprise. “Well, now . . . ah, that’s very commendable,” he fumbled and shot a questioning glance at McKinley, who was standing in the door. He expected his chief pharmacist to correct the word “tutoring,” which implied an unusual personal attention from an officer. But McKinley did not intervene. “Ah . . . how old are you, Collins?”
“Twenty-four, sir.” He looked much older.
“You realize it takes eight years of college and medical school to make a doctor?” Collins obviously knew this, so he went on to ask: “How much education have you had?”
“I graduated from high school with an A average, sir,” Collins answered without a trace of cockiness or even pride in his voice.
“Well, now . . . that’s fine. Very fine. But pre-med studies in addition to your other duties?”
“I intend to return to the navy after I obtain my degree, sir,” Collins told him, then added: “I would very much appreciate the commander’s help.”
Lieutenant Commander Porter felt a twinge of old prejudices welling up inside of him as he pictured this handsome Negro as a medical officer in the navy. He knew it was a terrible fault, but deep down he firmly believed that Negroes should be stewards and nothing more. That was what he had been brought up to believe; that was what had been accepted in the navy during nearly half of his career in it. He was ashamed of this attitude, but his only way of reacting to it was to be scrupulously, painfully, insincerely fair. “Naturally, I will try to help you every way I can, Collins,” he said, looking down at the steel top of his desk. “But you must give me time to settle into my new job. Then I’d like to go over the work you did with Lieutenant Hirschfeld and see what can be done.”
Collins said: “Thank you very much, Commander,” saluted and left to clean up the officers’ toilets.
After he was gone, McKinley added to the surgeon’s discomfiture. “That man has a superior rating throughout, sir. I hope you can find time to work with him.”
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t,” the surgeon snapped defensively; then a look of malice came into his eyes. “How much do you help him, McKinley? Didn’t you tell me you’ve had pre-med at Duke? Wouldn’t that qualify you to tutor him?”
McKinley smiled and shook his head. “He’s far beyond where I left off, sir. On neurocellular structures right now, I believe.” He excus
ed himself to attend to some duties in the surgery.
Porter decided he would talk to Captain Finlander about Collins — which would naturally lead to a discussion of Lieutenant Hirschfeld and thence to the matter of the captain’s missing Form 28. He and Finlander had had a pleasant meeting yesterday afternoon during which he had been much impressed by that officer’s lucid description of the Bedford’s operational problems, but there had been no opportunity to deal specifically with those of the medical department. As captains should be, Finlander was only concerned with the over-all picture, not details. However, the surgeon had analyzed him as a man who missed nothing, a man one could talk to and be understood by. Whatever Hirschfeld had implied about him — he was wrong.
The surgeon was about to reach for the telephone and call Finlander to ask for an appointment at his convenience when Pharmacist Engstrom came to the door and announced: “Commodore Schrepke requests to see the commander, sir.” The German officer was behind him and politely waited for Porter to invite him into the office — which he instantly did while respectfully standing up.
Schrepke said, “Good morning, Commander. I will only take a few minutes of your time,” then shot a look at the pharmacist which made him close the door to give them complete privacy.
“I hope you are not feeling sick, sir,” the surgeon said, trying to avoid looking too pointedly at the German’s strangely un-naval dress. The black leather jacket would be more in keeping for a motorcyclist, but he vaguely remembered that U-boat crews used to wear something like that during the last war.
“I feel very good, thank you,” Schrepke told him. “I am here because your captain informs me a prescription given by the former medical officer should be renewed by yourself.”
“Oh? Just one moment, sir.” Porter opened the file drawer and the German patiently waited while he searched for his Form 28. But there was none in the folder, only a plain sheet on which were typed the man’s name, serial number, blood type and a notation: foreign officer — Form 28 waived. In the lower left corner, in Lieutenant Hirschfeld’s handwriting, was written: Medication provided by subject officer may be taken at his own discretion. This brought a perplexed frown to the surgeon’s face. Here was another strange irregularity in the Bedford’s medical records! “I am afraid Lieutenant Hirschfeld neglected to either note the prescription or the nature of the condition it is supposed to treat,” he said to Schrepke.
“That is all right, Commander. The doctor and I had an understanding.”
He said it as if this were the most natural thing, yet there was something in his guttural tone which put Porter on his guard. “What was the medicine?” he asked.
“Schnapps.”
“Schnapps, sir!”
“Yes — schnapps.” Commodore Schrepke suddenly produced his little silver hip flask and put it down on the desk in front of the astounded surgeon.
Lieutenant Commander Porter stared at the flask, then slowly picked it up and turned it over in his hands. It was quite old, had several buckles in it and some engraving which had almost been worn off. Beneath a crest, which he recognized as that of the Nazi navy, he made out an inscription in German script, but of this he could only read: U-797. Opening the cap, he sniffed a strong whiff of what smelled like pure alcohol. “B-but, sir . . . this isn’t really medicine.”
“It is the only kind I have ever taken in my life.”
“Yes, but —”
“You carry brandy in your medical supplies, do you not, Commander?”
“Yes, of course, but you see —”
“Well, I carry schnapps in mine,” Schrepke snapped, beginning to show signs of irritation.
As the surgeon tried to collect his thoughts to decide whether to overlook the whole thing or act according to strict navy regulations, he heard the PA announce a maximum-effect sonar sweep and felt the turbines slow down to a murmur. “I don’t know, Commodore,” he said. “Perhaps I had better check this out with Captain Finlander. B-but you say he suggested you see me about it?”
Schrepke reached out and retrieved the flask, putting it back in his pocket. “It really makes no difference to me what you do, Commander,” he said. “I have nothing to hide, only prefer everything on record and in order so as to cause no embarrassments. But it does not really matter. I am sorry I troubled you.”
He started to leave and Porter jumped up out of his chair, very flustered. “Please, Commodore. You must understand my position in this. If only you could explain . . . well, I mean, why do you have to have schnapps?”
Schrepke’s face wrinkled in deliberately exaggerated thought, an expression which made his hard features almost comical for a moment. “I don’t really know, Commander.” He shrugged. “I have had three schnapps a day since I joined the navy in 1931. One in the morning, one at noon and one at night. I have had them that way ashore, on the ocean, under the ocean, and your English allies were even so kind as to let me have them when I was their prisoner of war. Why I must have schnapps, I can’t really explain. But if you are worried that I am an alcoholic . . .”
“Good God, no, sir!”
“Then perhaps you and your navy will indulge an old sailor, yes?” He did not await any answer and excused himself with a quick explanation that he was due to join the captain on the bridge.
After he had gone, Lieutenant Commander Porter sat staring at the folder until he became aware that McKinley was standing in the door, looking in at him. “What do you know about this lack of records, Chief?” the surgeon asked, holding up the sheet of paper.
McKinley evidently knew enough about it so he did not have to study it. “Commodore Schrepke is kind of a special case, sir.”
“Damn right! No proper forms. Motorcyclist jacket. Carries his booze on his hip. I’ll say he’s special! A full admiral couldn’t get away with that in our navy. Why the hell should he? But I suppose Lieutenant Hirschfeld concocted some obscure justification.”
McKinley shrugged. “Only that the commodore is very senior and has never been able to get over his experiences in the war. If a few shots a day make him feel better, well, that’s legitimate medication.”
“Hell, McKinley! Our submarine boys had some shaking experiences too, you know.”
“Yes, sir. But Commodore Schrepke was sunk twice and is the only commander in history who ever got all his men out of a wrecked sub lying over a hundred feet deep. Some of them burst their lungs on the way up, but he kept the survivors together until they were rescued ten hours later. The second time he was sunk, a British can blew him to the surface the day before the war was over. Only he and one sailor got clear, but when the Limeys tried to pick him up, he fought them off and attempted to swim away and drown himself. They caught him and put him in a POW camp, where he stayed for a year while they tried to decide whether or not he was a war criminal. He had too many Nazi medals, besides having sent down nearly one hundred of our ships. But once he towed survivors in lifeboats for a couple of hundred miles just to make sure they had a fighting chance, and not even our boys ever took risks like that. So they let him go, and he went home to Germany to try and find his wife and kids. His home was in the Russian zone, and he was there just long enough to find out his family had all been killed. Then the Russians picked him up. They had captured a number of the latest U-boats in half-finished condition and needed experts to help put them together and operate them. So he spent the next two years at forced labor in Russian yards until he managed to escape. He and another German officer sailed across the Baltic in an open boat during the dead of winter; the other man froze to death within sight of the Swedish coast, but he made it. The Russians claimed he had not only sabotaged some of their submarines, but also killed a guard while escaping, so they raised so much hell that the Swedes were about to agree to extradite him. He escaped again, perhaps while the Swedes looked the other way, and finally reached West Germany. When the German navy was reactivated, they gave him back his commission and, because he knows all about Russian subs, he was put
in charge of ASW work. The sonar boys tell me Commodore Schrepke is so sharp he can listen to a signal or analyze its trace and tell you what type of sub it is, what kind of engines it has and whether it’s been out long enough to have barnacles growing on its hull.” The chief pharmacist grinned at his own exaggeration, then added very seriously: “He is a strange duck, but, kraut or no kraut, he’s also one hell of a fine naval officer.”
The surgeon said nothing for a moment, looking down at that nearly blank piece of paper which was all the official record he had of this man Schrepke. “How do you know all this?” he finally asked.
“Captain Finlander spread the word just before the commodore joined us last month, sir. He himself never talks about his past that I know of. . . . Do you want me to enter his visit this morning in the medical log, sir?”
“Hell, no! Not until I talk to Finlander about him,” Porter answered testily. “But I’ll tell you one thing, Chief. I’m going to go through all these records with a fine-tooth comb. I don’t want any more surprises.” He opened the file drawer all the way and lifted out a fistful of Form 28’s. McKinley laughed. “You’ve already stumbled on the only two cases that aren’t kosher, Commander,” he said and withdrew.
Undeterred, the surgeon plunged into his self-imposed paperwork. But he had difficulty in concentrating, not only because his mind kept slipping back to dwell on Commodore Schrepke, the captain’s missing Form 28, Hirschfeld’s mysterious dismissal and the strange lingering of his presence aboard, but also because the Bedford seemed to be going through some strange maneuvers. The maximum sweep had been terminated and her engines were all ahead standard, yet he could feel her weave on a constantly changing course. The sea was still flat calm with only a slight trace of oily swells, but as she turned, she would heel slightly and the motion would change in a disconcerting manner. He wished the receiving office had a porthole so he could see the ocean. He wished he had some patients from other departments so he could pick up some scuttlebutt from them. And as he thought this, it struck him that it was also peculiar that so few of the Bedford’s crew ever reported for sick call. All the other ships he had served on which had over three hundred crew would produce at least a half-dozen minor cases a day, including the inevitable hypochondriacs and malingerers. But not on the Bedford. As he checked the forms, he hoped he would find somebody who was overdue for a regular physical examination. By the time he had gone through five or six and found nothing out of order or unusual, he gave up the project and decided to write a letter to his wife. Lieutenant Commander Chester Porter wrote at least one page a day to his wife when he was at sea, posting off a ten- to fifteen-page epistle whenever he reached port or connected with a supply ship.
The Bedford Incident Page 9
