An Honorable German (7 page)

Around 0700, Max fastened his oilskin and left the enclosed bridge for one of the exposed wings. Wind knocked the breath from
his chest. He clung to the handrail and inched his way around to the signal post, a small platform directly behind the enclosed
bridge from which the signalmen ran their flags up and down the signal mast. The wind dropped off as
Spee
’s superstructure formed a sort of lee.

Max pulled his binoculars from under his coat and scanned the sea astern of the ship. A clean ozone smell, the smell of storm
air, filled his nostrils. Windblown rain quickly splotched the binoculars. He licked water off the lenses, took another look,
then put away the binoculars. Looking down to button the coat, he paused. Three sailors struggled with the floatplane. The
plane threatened to break loose from its moorings; young, inexperienced men tried to add restraining wires to hold it fast
to the catapult. Exposed to these waves, they worked without lifelines. They had not yet learned that the sea was a hard master,
deadly and remorseless, unforgiving of mistakes. One of the rules drilled into every Seekadett—never go on deck in a storm
without a lifeline. In a tropical storm off Florida, while on the training cruiser
Emden
, two cadets had ignored that advice. They were the first of Max’s crewkameraden to die.

Max yelled at the men to get below. The wind snatched his words and they didn’t hear.

Max shouted again. Then his eyes widened. A giant wave bore down on them. Cupping his hands against his mouth, he bellowed
with everything he had. The men, only ten meters away, did not hear.

The wave arced. One of the sailors looked up and screamed at his shipmates. Too late. A wall of angry water hit the ship,
heeled her over thirty degrees, and broke over the floatplane in a shower of spray and foam. Water ran from the deck as
Spee
righted herself. Two men were gone. The third hit a stanchion of the deck railing on his way overboard. He clung to it in
desperation.

“Hold on! Hold on!” Max yelled. The man did not move—no doubt injured. The next wave would take him. Max spun around, jerked
open the flag locker, seized a length of manila rope. He dropped his binoculars into the locker and slammed it shut.

Coil of rope in hand, he grasped the outer rails of the metal stairs, slid to the next landing, then vaulted the railing and
dropped three meters to the teak deck. He heard the rush of water, the freight train sound of the big waves racing toward
them, and dashed to the sailor—Keppler, a deckhand, all of eighteen.

Graf Spee
began to heel.

Three times around the stanchion for a running half hitch, then Max whipped the rope around both himself and Keppler, then
around the stanchion again. He looped the end around his wrists, the weight of their bodies drawing it tight. The water broke
over them. Max’s breath blew from his body. His mouth opened and filled with brine. Water invaded his ears, ran up his nose.
The ocean sucked at them. A shoe went but the line held taut, biting deeply into Max’s flesh. He thrashed, shaking his head
violently, the water clawing at them. And then it was gone, over the side, but he and Keppler remained.

Max retched, coughing and spitting, then drew a lungful of air. He unfastened the line and dragged Keppler, unconscious, to
the foot of the bridge housing. Popping the toggles on the heavy metal door, he strained against the weight until the door
swung open. He pulled Keppler inside and started puking again, acid burning in his throat. That was how the senior bridge
messenger found him.

“Herr Oberleutnant!”

“Fetch the doctor, now!”

Max lay in his soggy uniform on the hard steel deck, fighting to regain his breath. With the adrenaline gone, he began to
tremble. Death taunted—over the side, a last scream, mouth filling with water, arms thrashing, the ship now a gray shadow,
now gone. Alone in the tossing waves. He shivered at the thought.

“Oberleutnant,” said the doctor, crouching over him.

“See to Keppler, please, Doktor.”

Summoned by the doctor, orderlies appeared, bundled Keppler onto a stretcher, and carried him away to the infirmary. Max wanted
to tell the doctor to carry on, that he was fine and had his watch to finish, but he didn’t feel that brave. His wrists, scored
by the bite of the rope, bled into little red puddles on the deck. A knot on his head ached—the wave had pounded his skull
against the stanchion.

Max leaned against the doctor—like a damned old woman, he thought—as they made their way to the ship’s hospital, tottering
like drunks to the motion of the ship.
Spee
had a twenty-bed infirmary complete with two operating theaters as well as dental and X-ray units. As good as the Charité
Hospital in Berlin, they said. With over a thousand men, thousands of kilometers from land, she had to be so equipped. Several
sailors were lying in the starched white beds when Max entered, a normal complement during storms, which always brought broken
bones and sprains and gashes.

Max lay down and the doctor put a needle in his arm. A warm feeling spread through his body as the morphine took effect. He
fought it for a moment, tried to concentrate, to tell the doctor that it wasn’t necessary. But it felt wonderful. He let go
and allowed the drug to embrace him.

He woke some hours later, coming slowly out of his stupor. It took him a moment to realize where he was and what had happened.
The pain reminded him. The morphine had worn off and his wrists burned. Thick gauze bandages kept him from surveying the damage.

“Guten Abend, Herr Oberleutnant,” said the orderly, coming forward.

Max propped himself up. “What time is it?”

“Just coming on twenty-four hundred hours, Herr Oberleutnant.”

“My God, I slept that long?”

“It’s the morphine, sir. It does that to everyone.”

Max grimaced as he moved to sit up. “Keppler?”

“Broke both legs and three ribs, Herr Oberleutnant. We gave him twice the morphine dose you received, so he’ll be out for
a while. But he’s doing fine—thanks to you, sir.”

Max shrugged.

Dieter entered the infirmary, both arms raised in the air like a prophet. “Already your bravery is legend among the lower
orders, who have begun to worship you as a god.” Max grinned. Dieter punched him lightly on the shoulder. “You are well, Max?”

“Well enough for someone who just woke up from an opium dream.”

“Was it good?”

“So good I can’t remember it.”

“Ha! Like many of my finest nights,” Dieter said. “Stitches?” he said, looking at Max’s wrists.

“Just abrasions from the rope.”

“That can hurt, too. You remember the time I had to hang from a rope off the balcony of that hospital room in Danzig, so the
matron wouldn’t find me with Olga?”

Max nodded. “I do remember, but I think her name was Helga.”

“Attention on deck!” an orderly called.

Dieter went rigid and Max sat up straight. Langsdorff entered, smiling around the cigar in the corner of his mouth. “Young
Brekendorf is always trying to get himself killed,” he said.

Max felt the color come up in his face.

“Well done, Brekendorf. Very well done.” Langsdorff reached into his coat pocket, produced a second cigar, and offered it
to Max.

“Thank you, Herr Kapitän.”

“Save it for a quiet moment, Oberleutnant. As you know from the radio message we received yesterday, Grand Admiral Raeder
has authorized me to award one hundred Iron Crosses Second Class to members of the ship’s company who have shown a special
devotion to duty. It is my pleasure to award one to you, Oberleutnant, for your actions in rescuing Seaman Keppler, and for
your exemplary conduct during this war cruise.”

“I’m honored, Herr Kapitän.”

“It’s only what such an act deserves. The highest duty of any officer is to watch over the well-being of his men.” Langsdorff
turned to Dieter. “Keeping our young friend company, Falkenheyn?”

“I am, Herr Kapitän.”

“I understand he might not be with us had you not helped him with Oberbootsmann Carls.”

“Ja, Herr Kapitän. But this time he waited till I wasn’t there, so he could keep all the credit for himself.”

Langsdorff smiled again. “Well, I bid you young gentlemen a good evening.”

Dieter again came to attention.

“Herr Kapitän?” Max said.

“Ja?”

“I wish to report for duty at my regular hour.”

Langsdorff studied Max, taking in the bandages on his wrists and white gauze around his forehead. “If you can secure the surgeon’s
permission, then you may.”

“Thank you, Herr Kapitän.”

“But Oberleutnant.”

“Ja?”

“Shave before you come on duty.”

Max tried not to smile. “Jawohl, Herr Kapitän.”

Langsdorff exited and Dieter produced a package of cigarettes, Murattis at that, hard to come by these days and not something
Dieter shared readily. He took one for himself and then offered the rest of the package to Max.

“He’s right, you know,” Max said. “I don’t think Carls and I would have made it off that freighter if you hadn’t come back
for us.”

Now it was Dieter’s turn to shrug. “I’m sure you would have managed.”

“Well, thanks anyway. I’ve been meaning to say that.”

Dieter nodded through the blue haze of his cigarette. “You’re welcome, El Maximo.”

They smoked in silence for a while.

“Captain says we’ll find a convoy off the Rio Plata,” Max said. “Then home by Christmas.”

Dieter smiled. “A Christmas goose. Sleigh rides with the girls. Carols around the fire. Sleigh rides with the girls. Mulled
cider, maybe a sleigh ride or two with the girls. A man could get used to such a life. Naturally I’d miss being awakened in
the dead of night by alarm bells—perhaps I could employ someone to do that for me while I’m home.”

Max laughed. “I’m going to get married while we’re on leave,” he said.

Dieter raised an eyebrow. “The brave groom schedules his wedding. Again.”

Max ignored the cut. “You’ll be the best man, of course. We’ll have the ceremony at the Lutheran church in Bad Wilhelm, then
a wedding feast—perhaps at Herr von Woller’s country house.”

“Ah, a feast. You know I do love a feast, Max, especially at a venue as auspicious as Castle von Woller. Very high-toned and
sure to be covered by the
Berliner Morgenpost.
But, El Maximo, a question: has Herr von Woller agreed to speak to you yet?”

“No.”

“I would not wish to present myself as an expert on social etiquette among the aristocracy, my own distinguished antecedents
notwithstanding,” Dieter said, putting his right hand to his chest and making a slight bow, “but might that be something you
should address before the wedding? Especially if you’re planning to have the reception at his estate?”

Max looked away. In his mind formed a double line of starched naval officers, swords held high to create an arch for him and
Mareth to walk through as they left the church, his father following behind, beaming with pride. Mareth’s parents, too. If
they even attended. The von Wollers were Prussian aristocrats, long associated with the Prussian Court—old family and old
money, much of it from the exclusive coaling supply contract they had enjoyed with the Imperial Navy until the years before
the First War. The von Wollers had not been pleased when their only daughter had announced her intention to marry the local
grocer’s son. Dieter would have been a more acceptable choice, his wild behavior aside, since he was officially Dieter Freiherr
von Falkenheyn, with his own listing in the
Almanac de Gotha
, and his mother listed as well, since she was a countess and a former lady-in-waiting to the Crown Princess of Bavaria.

“Well, I’m happy for you anyway,” Dieter said, “and I hope you go through with it this time. The poets tell us that love is
blind, and marriage is a venerable institution. Personally, I’d rather not be blind and living in an institution, but if anyone
is worth being married to, it’s Mareth—no matter what her parents think of you.”

Max grinned. Dieter would know. He’d spent a lot of time with them when the two had just begun seeing each other. Dieter was
the perfect friend to bring along with a new girlfriend because he was funny and entertaining, but enough of a scoundrel to
make Max look a prince by comparison. And Dieter not only understood his role but loved an audience. He kept everybody laughing
when the three of them went to the Gnomenkeller, the cadet hangout in Flensburg, also frequented by young women eager to meet
a Seekadett. On occasion, Mareth would approach girls on Dieter’s behalf, pretending to be his sister.

One night, she had introduced him to a set of vacationing Bavarian twins, big-hipped mountain girls of the kind Dieter most
adored. Mareth told them that her brother had been captain of Germany’s Olympic juggling team at the ’36 games in Berlin,
and, of course, Dieter obliged with an impromptu demonstration—using two shot glasses, then three, then four. Max had surreptitiously
caught the fourth one when Dieter dropped it, and the girls were none the wiser. The Bavarian fräuleins had been very impressed
and shortly thereafter both left with Dieter. Next day, Max had asked, “And what happened with the girls?”

“No one should ask a gentleman a question such as that,” Dieter said.

“Of course not, but then again I’m not asking a gentleman, I’m asking you.”

“I won’t say a thing.”

Max had laughed. “That means you didn’t.”

Now Dieter reached out and shook Max’s hand. “Congratulations,” he said, “again. Sadly, I must leave your heroic presence
and return to my duties.”

“You engineering officers actually have something to do?”

“Only keeping the engines running. A modest contribution compared to the mighty deeds of the sea officers.”

Max lay back when Dieter had gone. An Iron Cross. True, only an Iron Cross Second Class—just a small ribbon worn in the middle
buttonhole of your tunic—but still, an award for bravery. Mareth’s father could not look down his nose at that. He certainly
didn’t have one. Helmuth von Woller had spent the First War sitting on his duff in various diplomatic postings, playing bridge
with the other brave diplomats. Helmuth’s brother, Oberstleutnant Ernst von Woller, had fought shoulder to shoulder with Max’s
father in the village Landwehr battalion at Verdun—a yearlong siege that was meant to destroy the French but ended up destroying
the Germans. In one of those terrible battles, Johann Brekendorf had carried a horribly wounded Ernst von Woller through an
artillery barrage to the battalion aid station. Yet when he laid his commander on the ground outside the aid post, Ernst was
dead. Instead it was Johann, bleeding from dozens of small shrapnel wounds, whom the medics had bandaged and carried to the
hospital train. For this, Johann had been awarded the Prussian Military Cross, the highest award for bravery an enlisted man
could receive in the Prussian army. While he did not possess the decoration his father had, Max felt he had proved his bravery
to his father and to himself.