Ice Brothers (32 page)

The class had argued indignantly with the instructor, but no one had been too convincing. Still, even while admitting that he maybe was right, Paul had hated the man and had wondered why he seemed so tense, so shifty-eyed and aggressive, as though
he
more than anyone was aching for a brawl. Why, after all, did the instructor turn his own classroom into a battlefield where no one ever talked quietly, calmly …?

Thinking of all this aboard the
Arluk
, Paul couldn't persuade himself of much historic significance. But although his own people were of German stock and he had liked the few Germans he had met, he honestly did hate the Nazis, and Hitler with his murderous, irrational persecution of the Jews and anyone else who didn't agree with him. As for the Japs, they'd bombed Pearl Harbor, and whatever
their
self-styled historical necessity, Paul felt personally attacked and wanted to fight them as much as he had wanted to fight boys who punched him when he was little. Maybe … the Arctic bred fantasy … he was just a natural-born fighting man, the inevitable descendant of the great fanged apes, the Vikings and all those German ancestors of his. Well, anyway, he enjoyed learning to fight the Arctic successfully. Although his months in the Coast Guard had not been exactly idyllic, he was suddenly sure that he had enjoyed them more than he would have liked learning the ropes as a banker. He liked, even loved, the spectacular coasts of Greenland, and no doubt would love seeing any place new to him. He liked learning to earn the respect of other men and of himself—maybe that was the key to it. Self-respect had never been handed to him—he had to earn it every day of his life.…

Whether this was good or bad, Paul did not know, but it was an interesting discovery. Another interesting discovery started as only a suspicion, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized that at heart he didn't mind, maybe even was eager for an opportunity to fight the Nazis, the Japs, whoever was the enemy. The idea of fighting had a certain fascination—it was only the idea of losing that he didn't like, losing, being wounded and killed. Winning, he was convinced, would be marvelous, despite the fact that he would, almost without doubt, have to return to the same sort of dull job which would have been his lot if no war had rescued him. Winning, even without profit and without lasting honor, was good enough for him as an end in itself. At least for now.

Paul wondered whether he should be ashamed of this, but he was usually content with any truths he could discover about himself, finding morality enough in facing them squarely. The only trouble with discovering that winning was an end in itself for him was that it made him angrier than ever at those nameless authorities who had put him in a situation where it was almost impossible for him to win. Sending a trawler to fight German icebreakers on the east coast of Greenland was almost like sending a lightweight boxer into a room full of heavyweights.

Somewhere Paul had read that there were two great dangers in war: one was underestimating the enemy and the other was overestimating him. Some general had said that, maybe Sherman, who had said that war is hell. Certainly Paul had not underestimated the Germans. Was he right in assuming that they had many huge icebreakers on the east coast of Greenland?

Mowrey had said that when they captured Norway and Denmark, the Germans would have come into possession of many big icebreakers with experienced crews, but they had the whole of northern Europe to patrol and their resources must be stretched thin. Despite their need for weather reports, the east coast of Greenland could not seem all that important to them. Their army had already stalled in Russia, England showed no sign of giving in, and the Nazis must, at long last, be getting through their thick heads the fact that in the long run, the United States would be a deadly enemy. Those German generals who remained in possession of their senses must be beginning to see that their defeat was inevitable. Soon they would start drawing in their claws, concentrating their resources closer to home. Maybe they would forget all about the east coast of Greenland, except for sending an occasional plane over for weather reports.

All very sensible, and sooner or later it might even happen that way, but in the meanwhile, one powerful German weather ship had been sunk due to the sheer good luck of having clear skies and a flight of Lightnings overhead. The air on the east coast of Greenland was alive with German radio signals, whether or not some came from decoys, and the
Nanmak
was missing. No one, not even Paul the fighting man, could say that the Germans were not at least to be feared on the east coast during the approaching winter. If they were really desperate in the face of approaching defeat, that could make them all the more dangerous. It was somehow worse, Paul felt, to be killed by the last strike of a dying snake than to die fighting a whole nest of vipers.

In the midst of all these, as he realized, rather pompous philosophical musings, Paul was interrupted by Cookie, who loudly promised to shit in Boats's soup if that worthy didn't back up his authority over the seamen who were assigned to galley chores.

“When I say a man should be punished for doing a lousy job, Boats should do something to him. He just put a damn sailor who can't even get a plate clean, up for promotion!”

“What's the man's name?”

“Blake. He breaks more dishes than he washes. He does it on purpose to get out of the galley.”

“Tell Blake and all the others that they'll need your recommendation for any promotion.”

“Aye, aye, sir!” Cookie said, touching his chef's hat with his forefinger, and happily returned to his galley.

Back to reality, hero, Paul told himself.

CHAPTER 23

The gale let up two days before they reached Narsarssuak Fjord. The sky cleared and Paul was able to pinpoint his position before he entered the ice pack. When the mountains of Greenland came into sight, he recognized the peculiar formation of the granite hills at the entrance to the fjord.

“Narsarssuak Fjord dead ahead, distance sixty-three miles,” he reported to Mowrey, who staggered out of his bunk to verify this news. After staring at the distant coast for a few moments, he said, “You would have saved thirty miles if you had cut closer to the coast sooner.”

At Paul's direction Nathan coded a message which gave their position to GreenPat and their estimated time of arrival at the base. After Sparks had sent it, he was told to stand by. While he waited, the crew speculated on the possibility of a change of orders.

“We can't go far without getting fuel,” the chief machinist's mate said to Paul. “You better tell them that if they forget it.”

After only a short wait GreenPat sent a short message which, in accordance with Mowrey's standing orders, Sparks kept the operator repeating until Nathan had decoded it.

“Proceed to Narsarssuak Fjord,” GreenPat ordered. “Render all possible assistance to DD 177, which is hard aground on southern side of entrance to fjord. Navy tanker Greenwood is standing by to take destroyer's fuel and personnel if necessary. After rendering all possible assistance, continue to this base for refueling, supplies and orders as previously given.”

“Nothing I like better than pulling the damn navy off the rocks,” Mowrey said when Paul gave him the message. “What the hell would all those admirals do without the Coast Guard to nurse them?”

He climbed out of his bunk, called for coffee, and began to put on his best uniform. Navy discomfort was clearly a tonic.

To Paul's mind, a destroyer was a big ship, three times the length of the
Arluk
, and more than ten times the tonnage. Studying the entrance to the fjord as they approached, he half expected this huge vessel to be blocking half the entrance. To his surprise he saw nothing, even when they were only a few miles away. It was Mowrey who finally spotted the destroyer, which looked like a tiny model of a ship at the base of a towering cliff. She was almost on an even keel with her bow pointed out to sea, and at first glance it looked as though she were simply steaming very close to shore. A small plume of smoke reached up from her stack. The radar crescent at her masthead turned slowly toward them.

“She's on the rocks in practically no water at all,” Mowrey said with satisfaction as he studied the chart. “Her damn radar didn't do her much good.”

“How the hell did she get in there?” Paul asked. “How did she go ashore sideways?”

“Probably she was anchored in what looked like a nice safe spot right inside the fjord, and a good foehn wind hit her. Those navy bastards never take the trouble to learn about Greenland.” Mowrey continued to study the ship through the binoculars as they came nearer. “Her port anchor is still out,” he said. “They probably dragged ashore before they knew what hit them.”

A small navy tanker was anchored a half mile from the destroyer. Both it and the destroyer started to blink signal lights at the same time.

“Flags, get the tin can first,” Mowrey said.

“I'll get the tanker,” Nathan added and went to the signal light on the other side of the bridge. He could read blinker lights even faster than Flags could, a fact which rather confused Mowrey. For about two minutes the lights on the three ships flashed rapidly.

“The tanker wanted identification and then said she had taken most of the fuel off the can and was standing by to take personnel when ordered,” Nathan reported.

“The can requests a tow,” Flags said. “She says her stern is hard aground, but her bow is free. She's lost use of her propellers and rudder but otherwise has power. Her captain says there is good possibility we might tow her free.”

To Paul this seemed unduly optimistic. When he studied the waterline of the vessel, he saw that the stern was propped higher than the bow, and the ship was canted slightly to starboard, indicating that the whole port side was aground. The still gray waters of the fjord turned brown just short of the destroyer, with several areas of a lighter brown surrounding her. Over one of these a gentle swell broke, revealing rocks. The destroyer had been swept right over a reef, perhaps when the tide was higher, and Paul wondered whether she had any bottom left.

Mowrey was at his chart table, thumbing the tide tables. “The tide's on its way up now,” he said. “It will crest in about two hours. Yale, take the boat and go in there. Find out how they went aground and how long they've been there. Get a detailed damage report—I don't want her sinking the minute I get her off. Find if they've tried kedging her—her anchor is still out. The skipper is probably a commander and he'll want to be in charge of this operation. Find out exactly what he wants us to do and tell him that if we follow his plan, it's his responsibility. While you're talking to him, have Boats take soundings everywhere between us and him. I want to know where the water is and where it ain't. Have him draw up a rough chart, at least a sketch.”

The spectacle of a much prouder ship in trouble and the possibility of rescuing her perked up the crew of the
Arluk
, and while Mowrey let the trawler lie dead in the water, they worked with a will to lower the whaleboat. Boats jumped aboard with three seamen carrying leadlines and a clipboard with paper for a sketch. Paul followed.

“Study the currents in there,” Mowrey said, leaning over the rail as they cast off. “Not much is running here, but sometimes it's stronger along the shore.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Paul said. It seemed obvious to him that Mowrey much wanted to visit the stricken destroyer himself and to talk with her disgraced captain, but he was probably aware that his red eyes, swollen face and trembling hands would not make a good impression. Groundings were always investigated, along with rescue attempts, and Mowrey was beginning to recognize his vulnerability.

As the whaleboat approached the destroyer, a crew of seamen rigged a boarding ladder at the waist of the ship. It was very spiffy, Paul saw as they came alongside: gleaming mahogany, new white rubber with a nonskid surface on the steps, polished chromium stanchions with hand ropes of soft white cotton handsomely spliced. As Paul climbed it, he saw that the decks looked like those of a brand new ship. Everything was freshly painted, and spotless gray canvas covers with snowy laces covered the big guns which bristled everywhere. God, if we only had guns like these aboard our ship, I couldn't wait to meet the Germans, Paul thought.

Three petty officers, a lieutenant and a lieutenant commander formed a welcoming committee to greet Paul. All wore faultlessly pressed uniforms—aboard the trawler Paul had forgotten what pressing did for clothes. The gold stripes and the insignia of the officers gleamed without tarnish. The lieutenant even wore gray suede gloves. Paul, who had slept in his uniform the preceding two nights, felt like a tramp as he climbed aboard and self-consciously saluted the quarterdeck. “Permission to come aboard, sir?”

“Permission granted,” the lieutenant commander said. “We're glad to see you, although I don't know what you can do. Could you come to my office?”

Paul followed him through a passage, across a wardroom that looked to him like the drawingroom of a palace, with a huge silver coffee tureen on a special shelf and a table as big as two pool tables. The office, with a sign saying EXECUTIVE OFFICER in gold letters on the door, resembled the office of a vice president of a large corporation. The tall, slender executive officer, who looked surprisingly young when he took his cap off, but every inch a patrician, sat in a swivel chair behind an empty desk, and motioned Paul toward a small leather armchair nearby.

“Coffee?”

“Not right now, sir.”

“I suppose you wonder how we got in this fix.”

“Yes, sir.”

“We were escorting a small convoy of troop ships to the mouth of the fjord. We were supposed to turn away before entering the ice pack, but there didn't seem to be much ice.”

“That wind broke it up, sir.”