They had seen nothing all night; the wind had been calm and the sea so mild that even the canvas dodgers that kept the sea from slipping over the low freeboard were dry. There was no Victory Pennant bearing the tonnage of destroyed enemy ships to fly just below the Reichskriegflagge—the State War Flag—but that suited Hellwig. That meant that his ears were safe from the stinging blows of Janzen or the constant ringing that he endured after the guns had ceased firing.
They had been on a Lauertatik, simply loitering around possible enemy convoy routes in hopes of sighting a target, with another Schnellboot—S-209—but sometime in the night S-209 had gone off on some unidentified mission and left S-204 alone. This intensified Hellwig’s anxiety, but he kept his concerns to himself. Better to suffer in silence than give that brute Janzen an opportunity to slap him.
It had been a nightmare for Hellwig since leaving the Schnellbootsschuleflotille at Swinemunde. The training had been sparse and the instructors belligerent and Hellwig had been certain that he would be killed almost immediately when he got to the front. He had hoped that things would be much better at Cherbourg and S-Boot Flotilla 5. To his great surprise he hadn’t been killed, but the abuse that he had suffered, this time at the hands of his comrades, had been worse than at Swinemunde. He realized that he had merely exchanged one level of hell for another.
What a war.
Liebs, the gun captain, ducked into the gun well and lit a cigarette, reemerging amid a cloud of smoke.
“Almost home, Willy,” he said, relaxing as he enjoyed the minor luxury.
Hellwig coughed into the back of his hand, trying to avoid the smoke. He didn’t like cigarettes and he was certain that the men surreptitiously blew smoke in his direction to torment him.
“Did you see that fat barmaid at the café?” Liebs said, leaning back against the rim of the well.
The men sometimes went to a tiny café in Urville. The food was horrible and the meals overpriced, and the waitresses treated their customers as if they were vermin.
“No,” Hellwig said. He found the men’s constant preoccupation with sex disgusting. He was secretly delighted when the French whores gave one of the men the clap. Serves them right.
“Big tits,” Liebs said, holding his hands out from his chest in appreciation.
“No, I didn’t see her,” Hellwig said again, hoping his abrupt tone would send a message to Liebs.
“Why don’t you two pay attention to your gun?” Janzen said, appearing next to the well. He unwrapped the straps from around binocular frames and put the lens to his eyes, studying something in the distance.
“We were talking about my gun,” Lieb said, winking broadly at Hellwig. “Didn’t you see that French cunt … ?” Hellwig saw Lieb stop talking and focus on Janzen. The bootsmann had stopped sweeping the distance ahead and locked on to something. A feeling of dread swept over Hellwig. Not here, not now. They were too close to home. Surely this was a mistake. Janzen was just playing with him. Just tormenting Hellwig like he always did.
Janzen held up his hand extending three fingers. It was a signal meant for Meurer in the bridge.
“What is it?” Lieb asked, moving to his position on the doorknocker.
Janzen said nothing. Hellwig looked aft, over the low edge of the gun well, for some signal of what was happening. What he saw shocked him. Gun crews were manning their guns. Wait. Something was wrong. They were almost home. He was just an assistant loader. Janh was the loader but he was ill and had been taken off the boat. Now he was the only one to load the gun. It wasn’t fair. He needed help. There should be someone to help him.
Jansen’s eyes never left the binoculars. “Get ready,” he said calmly to Lieb and Hellwig.
Oh, no, no. Not now. They were home. This was a mistake, Hellwig thought, moving quickly to the ready ammunition boxes against the bulkhead. He saw Lieb push his shoulders into the padded mounts of the doorknocker and glance at him as if to say: “Ammunition.” Hellwig hefted a shell pack in his arms, the weight of the explosives one more confirmation that something horrible was happening. He noticed that Janzen was gone and he suddenly missed the rough man’s presence. If he had stayed next to the well everything would have been all right. Now it was just Lieb. The gunner retracted the chamber handle, feeding the first round into the breech.
“Probably some Frenchy out fishing or something,” he muttered, adjusting the shoulder mounts. “Fucking Frenchies lost the war but they behave as if we did. These are restricted waters. But here they come. Stupid bastards.” He threw Hellwig a harsh look. “Ready?”
Hellwig nodded, gripping the shell pack tightly to his chest. He felt the vibration in the deck increase and he knew Meurer was speeding up. His anticipation grew sharply at each meter consumed by the boat, collectively advancing the situation to an inevitable conclusion: he would die.
“See anything?” Lieb said.
Hellwig leaned over the edge of the well. Nothing. The blackness of the bluffs of the French coast and the sharp brightness of a newborn sun. The sky was pretty, he thought, orange and red but just above that a pale blue. He lost himself in the colors for just an instant but then remembered where he was when fear washed over him again.
“No. Nothing,” Hellwig said, moving to the side of the gun. It wasn’t fair. Janh should be here. I can’t do this myself.
“I wish the hell that Janh was here,” Lieb said.
Hellwig was relieved that Liebs agreed with him and thought for an instant that the gun captain would tell Meurer that they must not fight because there was only one man to load the gun. There was only Hellwig. But Meurer would not listen. He didn’t care about them—he barely said anything when Janh was carried off the boat in agony. Appendicitis, they said. Meurer would give them no one else. Now Hellwig had to feed the gun by himself. It wasn’t fair.
S-204 veered sharply to the right, throwing Hellwig against the bulkhead. The sea exploded to port. He heard the order to fire—he thought he did but he couldn’t be sure because he was trying to make his way back to his station. He almost lost the shell pack, but he regained his footing in time to see Lieb train the gun to starboard and depress the trigger.
The world turned to fire and smoke as Hellwig swung under the barrel and fed a shell pack into the magazine. He quickly pulled another from the ready ammunition box as red tracers flashed overhead. He slid the pack into the magazine and pulled another from the box. He could hear Lieb cursing in gasps in between the flat bark of the gun. Explosions surrounded them as Hellwig continued to feed the gun. He exhausted one ammunition box and quickly moved to another—one eye on what he was doing and one on the position of the gun. He had to stay just to the side of the breech, near the hopper, so that he could drop shells into the magazine. But he had to keep an eye on the movement of the gun as Lieb swung it wildly along the horizon. Hellwig suddenly remembered that Janzen had held up three fingers. They were outnumbered three to one.
He flipped the lid open on another box, and at that moment he heard a crash aft. He saw the skullcap blackened and covered in flames, and his bladder emptied.
He turned quickly, shaking so violently that he could barely feed the shell pack into the magazine. He was going to die. This time he would. He knew it. He felt it.
Lieb screamed profanities at the unseen enemy as the doorknocker pumped shell after shell into the darkness.
Hellwig heard the roar of the engines of S-204, but he heard the rumble of other engines as well. The enemy. British or Americans. They were going to kill him. He would die. He prayed frantically, asking God that he be killed quickly, that he not be horribly mutilated and take hours or even days to die.
A blast surrounded Hellwig, and the noise was gone, replaced by a dull rumble and even that seemed muted somehow. He found himself on the deck, lying awkwardly over an ammunition box. He pulled himself to his feet. He saw Lieb shouting angrily at him, but the gunner’s voice had been taken from him and all that remained in Hellwig’s world was the rumble.
He wants shells, Hellwig finally realized. He staggered to an ammunition box and threw back the lid. The world exploded and as Hellwig sailed through the air he thought that somehow he was responsible because he opened the ammunition box.
He hit the water awkwardly and lost his breath. It was black and cold and he felt himself bob to the surface. His life vest saved him. He tried to avoid wearing it in the beginning, explaining to Janzen that he couldn’t handle the shells because the life vest got in his way.
The bootsmannmaat called him an idiot and said that one day he’d thank God for that life vest. Was Janzen dead? Was Lieb dead?
He heard a deep roar and a huge shape slid alongside him. He was saved. S-204 had come to rescue him. Relief filled completely and he thought with joy that they really did like him: Janzen, Meurer, Lieb, and the others. They weren’t going to abandon him. He would write his mother and tell her that these men weren’t such a bad lot after all and maybe after the war they would all get together and his mother could fix them a fine meal.
Then a wave spun him around to show him the flaming wreck of S-204, a hundred meters away. The sight of the burning hulk drifting on the Channel waves numbed him.
He felt something hook into his life vest and he heard voices—loud men talking with words that made no sense to him but did confirm the fact that the English or Americans had him and he would be tortured.
They were going to kill him, Hellwig thought. The British were animals and the Americans were worse.
A rope dropped in front of his eyes and he instinctively grasped it, ignoring the fleeting thought that told him to try to swim away to die near his friends. The call of life was too strong and Hellwig decided that those men on S-204 weren’t really his friends and that they treated him horribly and he would be ashamed to have his mother meet them.
Hellwig took the rope and held on tightly, while reaching hands gripped his life vest and turned him around. He dare not look up as he felt himself pulled from the water and dragged onto the deck of an enemy craft.
He saw a knife blade flash, but before he could cry out in horror the life vest straps were cut away and a man with a healthy growth of beard examined him. A doctor, Hellwig thought, but he was rough looking and his hands were not gentle.
He looked up tentatively and saw two men standing over him. Officers, he knew immediately, then he knew that they were American officers by their uniforms. Several other men stood around him, sailors he thought, all grim looking.
One officer was tall, very thin, and Hellwig felt as if his eyes were piercing his soul. The other was shorter, and when he turned his head to talk with the sailor who examined him Hellwig saw the scar. A gangster. One of the Jew Roosevelt’s gangsters. He’d read about them. His mother had written to him about the American gangsters. He began to tremble more but not from the cold.
One of the sailors pushed through the group, holding a cup. The aroma enveloped him. Coffee. Real coffee, not ersatz. Hellwig always drank tea when he could find it; he thought coffee was too vulgar, but the scent that was coming from the cup in the enemy sailor’s hands called to him.
Hellwig took the coffee cup, wrapping his fingers gratefully around its warm surface. His eyes darted from Tall American to Scarface to the other sailors surrounding him. He felt their eyes examining him as the boat dashed across the water, throwing plumes of white foam high into the air.
Scarface was talking to Tall American now. His voice was very measured and calm but his words might just as well been thrown over the side. Tall American ignored everything that Scarface said, Hellwig could tell that easily enough because Tall American’s eyes never left him. They were dark, hate-filled eyes, impatient and cold. He had first thought that Tall American was someone who could help him; despite his rough appearance he looked civilized, kind. Perhaps he would protect him from Scarface. Now, he wasn’t sure.
Hellwig couldn’t understand the language, but he knew that Scarface was making a case of sorts, of what and for what, Hellwig didn’t know. His fright had subsided somewhat, and he kept his focus on sipping the steaming coffee. He had survived, he was alive, and he was going to a prisoner of war camp where he would never have to fight again. A sudden thought occurred to him: what if there was torture? What if Roosevelt’s gangsters hanged him as a criminal? Strangely, the idea carried no weight, and he marveled at the idea that perhaps he was brave—that he had defeated death. Then he realized he was alive and that was the paramount thought that occupied him. Briefly the images of Janzen, Lieb, and the others flashed before his eyes, but he paid no attention to them—dead perhaps or on one of the other boats, captives like himself. And if they were dead there was some sort of God-delivered justice for their smoking, drinking, and whoring, and for an instant Hellwig considered death an adequate retribution for the beatings that Janzen had given him.
Scarface turned to him, either satisfied that his words to Tall American had accomplished what he had in mind, or simply because the words had been useless.
“How are you? Are you feeling better?” Scarface asked. His German was clumsy and the accent made the words sound stilted and awkward.
“Yes,” Hellwig said. He tried to appear calm although his hands still shook uncontrollably. He noticed Tall American’s eyes narrow.
“You’ll be taken back to England. A prisoner of war camp. You understand?”
“Yes,” Hellwig said, his eyes unconsciously drawn to the long scar on the man’s face. He remembered one American movie. Cars raced down deserted city streets and from the darkness, a horrible thunder of a dozen machine guns.
“You won’t be harmed,” Scarface continued. Tall American stood silently behind the other American, swaying slightly with the motion of the boat. It was then that Hellwig noticed the holster and pistol on the man’s hip. Tall American followed Hellwig’s eyes, glanced down at his hip, looked at Hellwig, and smiled. The eyes taunted him and the smile said, “You understand that I will use this, don’t you?”
“I have some questions,” Scarface said. His voice was soft and low and his eyes bore sincerity. It might be a trick, Hellwig cautioned himself. He may appear to be friendly and then the torturing will begin, but the thought drifted away. He felt strangely superior, as if selected by God to survive, to be plucked from the dismal life aboard S-204, and despite the absolute terror of the last few minutes, granted salvation by the Almighty because he was deserving. The idea filled him with strength and the arrogance of those who defeated death even if the victory were won by pure happenstance.
“You come from Cherbourg? Yes?”
Name, rank, and identification number. That was all that you’re to tell the enemy if captured, Hellwig had been told, over and over. Above that, say nothing, the instructors had ordered him at Swinemunde. Nothing. Hellwig shrugged, concentrating on the coffee. It was much better than anything he had tasted before but he wished it were tea.
Tall American said something and Scarface tossed a curt reply over his shoulder. They did not like each other, Hellwig saw that well enough, but a disquieting thought snuck into his mind: can Scarface protect me?
“You will protect me?” Hellwig whispered to Scarface. He let his eyes dart in the direction of Tall American so that the meaning would not be lost.
“Don’t worry,” Scarface said. “But you must answer my questions. Do you understand me? You must answer all questions that I put to you—truthfully.”
Hellwig felt the coffee cup slip from his hands as Tall American eased the pistol from his holster. Scarface saw the shock on Hellwig’s face and looked over his shoulder. He stood and put himself between Hellwig and the Tall American, blocking the German sailor’s view of what was going on. Hellwig could hear if he could not see. He heard the unmistakable sound of a round being chambered in the big pistol and Scarface’s soft voice berating Tall American, and finally Tall American’s short, harsh replies.
Hellwig realized that everything before had been a lie. He was not superior and death had
not been cheated; it was simply playing a cruel game with him, and he would die after all, and God had not granted him salvation. God had abandoned him, and the others were probably alive and would live for many years, and that he was the only one who would die. The thoughts rushed at him, mocking him for being a fool and for thinking that he was safe and would never suffer again.
Tall American pushed Scarface to one side, and suddenly the huge muzzle of the pistol filled Hellwig’s vision. A tiny cry escaped his throat as the hammer clicked back.
Scarface was still arguing with Tall American, but Tall American wasn’t listening. His eyes were focused on Hellwig, and a single word screamed out at Hellwig from his mind: murder.
Scarface was talking rapidly at Tall American but the words had no effect, so finally he turned to Hellwig and said: “You have to answer my questions or he’ll kill you. Do you understand?”
Hellwig gave a clipped nod, but he wasn’t sure if he had responded to Scarface’s question because he was trembling again. “Yes,” he said, His mouth was so parched with fear that it was difficult to talk.
“You’re from Cherbourg?”
“Yes.”
“What squadron?”
“Squad … ?”
“Flotilla,” Scarface corrected himself quickly.
“The Fifth. Cherbourg, yes. The Fifth.” The muzzle of the gun never wavered and Tall American’s eyes pinned him to the deck of the rocking boat. Scarface barked an order over his shoulder, but the other American slowly shook his head. He’s going to kill me, Hellwig thought, and he felt weak, all of the remaining strength flowing from his body.
“The special boats. The S-boats.”
Scarface’s insistent voice brought him around.
“Yes,” Hellwig confirmed, puzzled. Special?
“The fast S-boats,” Scarface said. “They’re faster than yours. They carry big guns. Large guns. What do you know about them?”
“I …” Hellwig began and then he remembered. He had seen them once from a distance, across Cherbourg Harbor. “You mean the flying boats?” he said.
Armada Page 10
