Island of Saints (11 page)

Even Billy's cigarettes, Lucky Strike, now came in a white-and-red box. They looked strange, having been packaged in green for as long as anyone could remember. But the military needed the green pigments for dyes and paints, and everyone contributed what he could. It was certainly patriotic—even marketable—as the American Tobacco Company found out the following year when it unveiled its radio advertisement: “Lucky Strike Green Has Gone to War!” Sales spiked 38 percent in the following six weeks.

“What time will Danny and Billy be back?” Helen asked.

“Probably about three,” Margaret answered. “When we're through in the kitchen, you can go if you need to. We're not exactly overrun with folks screaming for service, so I can hold down the fort 'til then.”

“No, that's okay,” Helen said without turning around. “No reason to go home. Nobody there waiting on me.”

Margaret straightened up and carefully laid the spatula to the side. Helen's comment was typical of the course steered by most conversations with the young woman. Margaret wiped her hands on her apron and stepped to the sink. She said kindly, “Helen, can I ask you something?”

Helen scrubbed hard at an area of dried egg yolk on a plate. “Yes, ma'am.”

“Are you mad about something? I mean, I
know
there's a sadness there, but are you mad . . . angry?”

Helen put down the plate and blinked. She hadn't really thought about it in that way, but answered honestly: “Um-hmm. Yes, ma'am.”

“Are you angry with anyone in particular?”

Helen thought before she responded. When she did, it wasn't what Margaret expected. “Yes, ma'am, I am. And no offense, but before you ask me who I'm mad at, I'll just tell you the truth. I'm mad at everybody. And if you asked me, ‘What about?' I'd say, ‘About everything.' I don't want to be. I don't think I always have been. But I am just mad. All the time.”

Margaret opened her mouth to reply, but Helen kept talking: “Margaret, I don't want you to think that I'm ungrateful. I appreciate so much what you have done for me. I love you all, but there's something wrong with me. I wake up angry. I dream wild, furious dreams. I don't mean to be, but I'm mad at you for having Billy. I'm mad at Billy for having you. I'm mad at Danny because he's so happy . . .” Without warning, Helen's lip began to quiver, and big tears rolled down her face. “I'm sorry,” she said in a trembling voice before, at last, she broke down and wept bitterly.

As Margaret replayed the incident later in her mind, she recalled how the young woman had folded her arms tightly as she cried, holding herself, instead of reaching out to her friend who was present, as another person might have done. “The poor child,” she told Billy that night. “She feels alone in a way I can't quite understand. I just stood there and rubbed her back. I didn't think she was ever going to stop crying. When she finally did, we talked a bit—I don't think I helped—then she said she was sorry again for about the twentieth time and left. Lord, I wish there was a phone out at that cottage. I hope she's all right.”

AT MIDAFTERNOON, THE U-166 WAS MAKING A COURSE CHANGE. Hans Kuhlmann had followed his young radio operator down into the boat to find Schneider signing off and standing to relinquish the desk. “For you, Commander,” the smug Nazi had said as he handed over a single slip of paper.

On it, Kuhlmann saw, Schneider had written a time and a specific longitudinal location. Also, in large script at the top of the page, the High Command code for this alteration preceded the message. This confirmed the authenticity of the instructions, however wary Kuhlmann might have been about receiving orders from Schneider. After all, this new location, with no further directive on what to do once there, appeared to be at least one hundred miles away from the previous orders of destination.

After calculations were made, the submarine, still running on the surface, executed a gradual turn to the right in an easterly direction. Now on a course of 28 degrees, the U-166 would arrive at her intended destination two hours after dark. Kuhlmann would run the last forty miles under water at a decidedly slower rate of speed. This, he determined, would allow the boat to avoid detection on the surface by the increased air and sea activity of a coastal population. Why, in God's name, he was to surface his boat in a precise location less than two miles off the Alabama coast, Kuhlmann hadn't a clue. But orders were orders—despite the commander's escalating sense of indignation at being forced to accept those orders from a man who was technically a civilian.

When Kuhlmann asked what the U-166 was to accomplish in the surfaced location, Schneider replied, “I will give you that direction when the time comes. The orders are fully authenticated by the High Command so, for the moment, do as you are told. You know as much as you need to know.”
It is a good thing,
Hans thought upon reflection,
that the
arrogant Nazi moved away immediately after speaking to
me in that manner
. He was already beginning to rethink Chief Quartermaster Wille's suggestion.

Josef was still on watch in the Wintergarten and noticed the course change at once. Holding the rear lookout, he saw the wake trail created by the sub's massive diesels bending behind them and was alarmed at first. Was this a mistake? Had an accident occurred on the bridge? A problem with the rudders? But as the U-166 straightened her line and steadied on it, Josef was convinced that their course was intentional. That realization did not lessen his confusion, however.

As the miles droned by, Josef unconsciously created a pattern of search with his eyes. Wake trail, then scan to the horizon's right for 100 degrees . . . back to the wake trail . . . scan to the horizon's left for 100 degrees. Now survey the sky in the same manner. He knew better than to relax this close to America's coast. An airplane, navy destroyer, or Coast Guard cutter—not to mention a merchant target—might appear at any time. It was well known that victory and defeat, survival and death, were, in most cases, determined by who saw the enemy first.

Surely the Americans are not so unsuspecting as we have
been led to believe,
Josef thought.
Are they so naïve as to
presume that war is fought only in other parts of the world?
Certainly not! After all, their newspapers must be full of the
sinkings by now.

Josef shielded his eyes from the sun and studied the strange creature that had taken up station high above him. He had never seen a frigate bird until this trip. One or two of the huge predatory waterfowl seemed always to escort the vessel. Josef marveled at the bird's wingspan—more than eight feet, Hans had told him—and its ability to ride the air currents for hours without flapping its wings. The frigate bird looked like an angel to Josef, giving the impression of calm, motionless flight, without effort, above everything, always watching.

With his back to the conning tower hatch, and knowing himself to be shielded from anyone ascending the stairs, Josef slipped his sub pack from his pocket. Opening it carefully, he ignored the two new additions and removed the photograph of Tatiana and Rosa. He studied the image and smiled at the memory of that day, of Rosa and the wagon. She had been thrilled as he pulled her for almost an hour, bumping endlessly up and down over the tree roots that protruded from the bare ground in the farmhouse's front yard. Josef had placed the child inside the wagon without any thought to the beautiful white day gown his wife had just made for their baby. The wagon, naturally, was filthy, and Tatiana had fussed at Josef for being
oblivious
. That was the word she used before crying, upset that she'd been cross with him on their last day together.

Josef blinked back tears as, with shaking hands, he tenderly slid the small photograph back into the sub pack. He looked up at the frigate bird again. Oh, God, how he missed Tatiana and Rosa. If he could only be with them now. He longed to feel his wife's tender kisses, to watch her sleep, to hear her soft breathing next to him in the dark. In Josef's mind, the sea breeze carried the scent of his child's skin. He closed his eyes and could feel Rosa exploring his face with her tiny fingers. He had not known this capacity for love had existed in him . . . this love that carried with it so much pain.

For the rest of the afternoon, Josef's mind wandered as his eyes, for the most part, remained true to his duty. Beyond the frigate bird and several curious dolphins who rode in the warship's wake for a time, Josef Bartels Landermann, recently demoted Kriegsmarine cadet, saw nothing.

Earlier than he'd expected, Josef was ordered from the tower. Not for a watch change, but to ready the submarine for diving. Within minutes, all crew had assumed station, the ballast was blown, and the monstrous technological wonder began a smooth, steady descent.

Leveling off at one hundred feet, the U-166 continued her course. A bit slower underwater at only eleven knots, she nonetheless ran quietly and efficiently, now on battery power alone. “Since you won't tell me the
purpose
of this departure from our original mission,” Kuhlmann said to Schneider on the bridge, “might it be wise to inform me of the situation we can expect? Do you prefer a defensive posture? Should the deck guns be manned? Party hats and whistles? What?”

Schneider continued to gaze coolly around the control area, totally in control of himself, watching the men go about their work as he presented a studied expression of superiority and boredom. Fully aware that he was driving Kuhlmann to distraction, Schneider responded, “Do not attempt to provoke me with sarcasm, Commander, for you do not possess the wit nor I the patience.

“As for this evening's preparations . . . nothing out of the ordinary will be required. A simple rendezvous with a friendly vessel. Nothing to be concerned about.” Schneider moved to exit the area, then turning as if he had just remembered something else, smiled and added, “You know? I
do
insist upon Landermann's presence, your trusted translator. No one else topside, save you and me, of course . . .” He thought a moment, then confirmed, “Yes. Yes, I think that will suit my purposes nicely. See to it, Commander Kuhlmann.”

THE FIRST THING JOSEF NOTICED WHEN THE U-166 SURFACED was an increase in sea height. It wasn't much, but from a dead calm area of the Gulf, they had obviously worked their way underwater to a location buffeted by what Hans had referred to as “a light wind or very strong breeze.” Josef retrieved his uniform jacket and buttoned it quickly over his light cotton shirt. Experience had taught him that even a summer night could deliver a chill if one were to spend more than a few minutes on a damp and windy deck.

Josef didn't wait for Schneider or Kuhlmann to scale the ladder. After the hatch was opened by the crew, it was Josef's responsibility as the lowest ranking member of the topside party to “clear the deck” and make sure all was safe for his superior officers to follow.

Looking up as he climbed, Josef saw stars framed in the circular opening high above him. The wind caught the lip of the sub's open hatch, creating a low tone, an eerie, ominous moan that always sent shivers crawling down Josef's back. He understood how the sound was made. It was the same principle as a child blowing across the mouth of a soda bottle, but the first time they'd heard the unearthly noise, Erwin Klein, the senior lieutenant, had grinned and told them, “The devil is holding us in his hand and to his lips. That is the wailing of his fiery breath.” Josef had not laughed with everyone else. Neither had he ever been able to shake the image that comment had forged in his mind.

Stepping onto the conning tower deck, Josef examined the area quickly, looked into the darkness, and motioned Kuhlmann and Schneider up. The wind was from the southwest and stronger than any of them had expected—around fifteen knots—though the seas remained less than three feet.

Josef shared “a look” with Hans as they watched Schneider check the time and slowly turn 360 degrees to search the surrounding waters for . . . what? There was nothing they could see. The waxing half of the midsummer moon, combined with the brilliance of the clear night's stars, provided just enough visibility for the men to see that, indeed, nothing was there.

“Commander,” Schneider said. “Order the periscope signal light turned on for ten seconds.”

Not predisposed to be helpful, Kuhlmann did nothing at first, but soon shrugged and relayed the order down the tower hatch. At once, the portable white light at the sub's highest point, thirty feet above them, pulsed on. For ten seconds, the single light intruded into the darkness, bathing the three men in a harsh glow, then faded as quickly as it had come. “What now, Mr. Schneider?” Kuhlmann demanded. The Nazi did not answer, and disgusted, Hans didn't bother to ask the question again.

Schneider calmly leaned against the railing of the Wintergarten until, after only a short time, he tilted his head to the side, listening. From the submarine's rear came a noise rapidly increasing in volume. Josef recognized the sound as the engine of another vessel, but obviously it was missing badly, gurgling and firing as if about to fail. Josef smelled the boat's leaking fuel almost as soon as it struggled into view.

It was a shabby boat, a bit over fifty feet in length, Josef guessed, as he watched an older, bearded man step from its cockpit. The engine noise abated somewhat as the vessel slipped out of gear and turned to parallel the much larger submarine. The man on board began coiling a rope near the bow as if to make a throw.

“Are we docking him, Schneider?” Kuhlmann barked over the racket of the nearby boat. “What is this? Is he preparing to tie up?”

“Of course, Commander,” Schneider replied loudly. “What did you think? Must I spell out every detail for you? Did you bring the gold?”

Kuhlmann was confused. “What?”

“The gold, Commander. The gold! Surely you understand we must pay this man for his service.”