Island of Saints (10 page)

Most folks heard the boat before they saw it. Named the
Melany,
it was an ugly, fat boat—a converted oyster barge—with a wide back end and a painted red top. Its sound was distinctive, a throbbing gurgle that coughed, spewing raw fuel out its exhaust and into the water.

Pal waded along in the surf, trying to keep pace with the boat, shouting and throwing pieces of wood at the man, but Kramer ignored him and continued to pull in any of the nonperishable items he found with a gaff and stack them on deck. Wan sat and watched this circus as Pal's men arrived and joined their boss, yelling and cursing in the water.
They're wet anyway
, Wan thought,
and everybody hates the
old man, so why not?

There was more reason to hate Harris Kramer than they knew. He had been given a dishonorable discharge from the army during World War I. Caught stealing from the men in his platoon, Kramer wasn't just kicked out—those were different times—he was beaten and humiliated.

Kramer had it in for everyone after that and vowed he would get even with all of them . . . the government especially. Through a friend of a friend, Harris Kramer met an influential German sympathizer and was recruited to sell food and fuel to German U-boats in the Gulf.

It was easy enough, he reasoned—easier than fishing anyway—and the money was good. He had a fuel ration exemption because his seafood business was designated a “necessary provider of food.” The Germans usually paid with gold, though once he was compensated in U.S. currency.

There was no chance of getting caught that he could determine. The transactions were handled at night, but even if they had taken place in the light of day, who was going to see anything? Everyone was so scared of the U-boats, most times Kramer was out on the water alone. And the kicker? Harris Kramer knew the areas being patrolled by the U-boats—after all, he fueled them—so it was a simple matter of cruising the beaches every day till he found a cargo to salvage. Then he sold to the Germans the food he had gathered from the torpedoed ships. It was beautiful!

Finally Pal and his men wandered back to where Wan was still sitting. Kramer, they decided, couldn't hear them anyway. He was cruising deeper water, searching for anything that he'd missed, and was headed back to the west from whence he'd come.

Pal plopped down in the sand next to Wan just as the sun came out for the first time that day. “Better hustle them dead fellers over the dunes pretty quick. Gonna be hot soon. Don't want to deal with that.” Wan grunted in agreement. “What do you think about this U-boat mess, Wan? What're they gonna do?”

“By ‘they,'” Wan asked, “you mean the navy?”

Pal shrugged. “Navy . . . Coast Guard . . . Women's Auxiliary at the Baptist church . . . hey, man, somebody better
do
something!”

The men got to their feet. “I don't know that anybody knows what
to
do, Pal. You can't see 'em . . . can't hear 'em . . . it's a whole new style of fighting a war.”

“It is that,” the big man agreed. “It sure is that.”

But it wasn't, really. At least the submarine itself wasn't a new weapon. In fact, the idea of undersea stealth was almost as old as recorded history. In 413 BC, warriors trained in the art of “breath holding” were employed at the siege of Syracuse. They swam undetected for long distances in order to disable ships of war. During the Middle Ages, while the Crusaders surrounded Acre, written accounts confirm an “underwater device” used by the Arabs to gain entry.

Even Leonardo da Vinci drew blueprints for some sort of underwater transport. His design was not seen until after his death, however, and his sketch notes revealed his apprehension that such a device might be used to sink ships.

During the next several centuries, inventors created increasingly sophisticated submersibles. No less a wartime expert than George Washington personally witnessed the launch of a one-man, pedal-powered submarine into New York harbor on September 6, 1776. Despite its ultimate failure as an attack vessel, Washington called it “an effort of genius.”

It wasn't until 1864, during America's Civil War, that the CSS
Hunley
became the first submarine effectively used as an offensive weapon. On a chilly February night, the Confederate sub eased out of Charleston harbor and sank the USS
Housatonic—
a brand-new twelve-hundred-ton Union frigate. The explosives had been attached to a long pole protruding from the submarine's bow, and they were detonated by ramming its target. The obvious success of the
Hunley
's mission was tempered by the fact that the subsequent explosion also sank her, killing all eight men aboard.

The evolution of underwater warfare had been achingly slow, but in July 1942, along the northern coast of the Gulf of Mexico, the German U-boat had reached an unimaginable level of effectiveness. And as Deputy Wan Cooper watched the med crew load the last of the bodies into their truck, he wiped his forehead with a white handkerchief, blithely unaware that, in his wildest dreams, he couldn't have conjured up a story as unlikely as the one in which he was about to become involved.

CHAPTER 7

WHEN ERNST SCHNEIDER DEPARTED THE CONNING TOWER, Kuhlmann rolled his eyes dramatically for the benefit of his men, who were already muttering ominously among themselves. Josef was a popular man aboard, as was their commander, and to say the officers did not appreciate the manner in which the sinister Nazi observer had just threatened their friends would be to understate their anger.

Particularly incensed was Chief Quartermaster Friedrich Wille, who, at thirty, was the only man on board the U-166 older than Kuhlmann. Wille was also terribly embarrassed that he had not arrested Schneider immediately when he had been ordered to do so. As Fischer assumed the forward lookout and the other officers, their watch concluded, descended the tower ladder into the boat, Wille approached Kuhlmann and Josef.

The two men still stood at the back of the conning tower's Wintergarten, the widely railed open area surrounding the twenty-millimeter antiaircraft gun. They made room for the quartermaster to join them. “Chief?” Kuhlmann said as he came near.

Wille stopped and looked at his feet. “Commander . . . I should be disciplined . . . There is no excuse for what I . . .”

Kuhlmann waved off the apology. “Wille, you are a good man. Good men are often at a loss for the proper way to handle an evil snake when it slithers into their midst.”

Emboldened, the chief glanced over his shoulder to assure himself of Fischer's location, then spoke quietly. “Sir . . . there are many forms an accident can take on a boat of this type. We are far from home and . . .”

Kuhlmann held up a hand to stop the man from saying any more. “Chief, don't consider it. I appreciate the sentiment, certainly, but in the middle of all this craziness, we cannot become like them.” He clapped the man on the back. “Take your watch, Wille. Go forward with Fischer for the time being. Landermann and I will remain on this station for a bit.”

Josef watched the quartermaster move away. He was aware of the freshening breeze in his face as he looked to the south, his eyes drawn to the schools of yellowfin tuna blasting baitfish as they tumbled in the submarine's violent wake. In truth, he had thought about killing Schneider as well.
Wille is correct,
Josef mused,
there are many ways for a man
to die at sea. A loose shirt jerked into the revolving pistons
. . . a gentle push at night from the tower deck . . . even a
pillow over a man's face could accomplish the deed. After
all, who would know? Who would care?

As Schneider had humiliated him in front of the other men moments ago, Josef had actually thought that he might grab the man and simply go overboard, taking him down and drowning them both. After all, Schneider would be no great loss to anyone, and as for himself . . . well, wasn't he intending to commit suicide anyway? Wasn't that why he had torn up his documents on his last watch, tossing the pieces one at a time into the dark waters below? Why hadn't he done it? Wasn't that what they called “killing two birds with one stone”?

“Josef?” Alone for the moment, Hans intruded on his friend's dark fantasy. “Are you all right?” Josef didn't answer. “Do not worry, Josef. I will take care of Schneider when we return. He will not have anyone shot.”

Josef managed an unconvincing nod. “He has done it before,” he said. “And he was a psychopath long before he had any authority from the other psychopaths. Remember, I knew him in England.”

“I remember. He was like this even then?”

Josef ignored the question. “I am concerned only for you. Maybe Wille has the right idea.
You
called Schneider a snake slithering into our midst. What do you do with a snake? You cut his head off so that he may never bite again.” Hans made no reply, and for a time, the men stood quietly, scanning the horizon with their eyes, but searching their hearts with their thoughts.

The U-166 moved at a brisk pace. Capable of speeds in excess of eighteen knots, her beam of 22 feet combined with a length of 252 feet created a draft greater than if a house had been towed through the water. The Type IXC was a long-range workhorse, but she was complex and, in order to function properly, required the efforts of every one of her fifty-two crew members.

As the sun grew higher in the sky, Josef noticed that his friend, the commander of the boat, had not departed the conning tower.
A silent show of support,
he realized.
And
much appreciated.
“Hans?” Josef spoke aloud. “What is our location?”

“When I ran the figures at dawn, we were approximately 260 nautical miles from the Mississippi Sound . . . south of New Orleans. We are to be part of an array of five U-boats shutting the port down and sinking anything in or out. Our last message ordered us in line, nearest the coast, on the eastern edge of the channel.”

“Two hundred sixty miles . . .” Josef did the math in his head. “At this speed, we should be nearing the coast in twelve to thirteen hours . . . tonight.”

Kuhlmann nodded. “Assuming the weather doesn't change, the south wind will create a following sea for the remainder of the voyage.”

Josef and Hans shifted in response to a noise behind them. Helmut Stenzel, the radio operator, stood at attention, having just loudly cleared his throat. The officers had not heard him climb the ladder. He was a young man, thin and pale. Hans didn't ever remember seeing the cadet topside except for an inspection or a forced swim—the submariner's version of a bath. His mental image of the boy—to Hans, he
was
a boy—was one of a stick figure folded behind a tiny desk, his eyes covered with his hands, summoning every particle of concentration into the massive headphones he wore.

“Stenzel?” the commander said in a questioning tone. “What are you doing away from your post?”

“Well, sir . . . ,” he stammered. “I . . . ahhhh . . . I have been away from my station for some time, sir. I felt you should be informed.”

Kuhlmann frowned, an expression of confusion evident on his face. “What?
Why
have you been away from your station?”

Stenzel glanced around and stepped forward nervously. “Because Mr. Schneider is using the radio, sir. He is transmitting and receiving code through the enigma discs, sir . . . for more than twenty minutes now. I felt you should know.”

Kuhlmann dismissed the cadet and looked in Josef's eyes. Josef saw concern on his friend's face. The enigma codes were, supposedly, unbreakable, and if Schneider had been given his own set—as he had asserted—then there was no way to find out what was being transmitted—or received—until the Nazi was ready to tell them.

This could not be good.

MARGARET SCRAPED THE GRIDDLE WITH A SPATULA BLADE AND watched Helen through the kitchen's open window as the young woman cleared the last of the tables from the lunchtime crowd.
Actually it wasn't much of a crowd
today,
Margaret thought. Among others, Wan had not come in, which was unusual. Neither had the med crew guys from the hospital. Margaret's imagination quickly spun through the awful possibilities and dismissed any personal concern. In the past, when that particular group was absent, it meant an accident of some kind, but her family, she concluded, was safe. Billy and Danny had just walked out the door, on their way to Mobile for supplies, so it couldn't have been them.

Helen backed through the swinging door into the kitchen, a tray of dirty dishes in her hands, and set the whole lot beside the huge sink. “I'll go ahead and wash these if it's okay,” Helen said. “There's no one left out front.”

“Fine, thanks,” Margaret responded. “I can keep an eye out from here . . . or at least we'll hear those elephant bells if someone comes in.”

Helen grinned. The bells on the café door were the source of a running feud between Billy and Margaret. “Just because you're deaf as a post,” Margaret would say, “doesn't mean the rest of us want to hear bells that belong in a church steeple pounding the front door all day long.”

Billy
was
somewhat hard of hearing, but the slight disability only manifested itself when he didn't want to hear what was being said. And so, as far as his wife's complaining about the bells on the café's door, she was correct—he was deaf. Harder to ignore, however, were the people who knew about the disagreement, were amused by it, and purposefully banged the bells against the door several times as they entered just to get Billy and Margaret going again.

As Helen ran the sink full of hot water, she listened to Margaret hum an unrecognizable tune, still leaning into the spatula, cleaning the griddle. It took anyone assigned to that task much longer than it normally would have to complete. Steel wool was virtually unavailable—steel being one of the many items requisitioned for the defense industry.