“Send ‘Sorry to be late,’ ” von Dattenberg ordered.
The chief of the boat put the lamp to his shoulder and flashed the message.
There was an immediate reply from the Ciudad de Cádiz.
The chief—unnecessarily, as von Dattenberg could read Morse code— waited until the message had finished, then reported: “The reply, sir, is, ‘Better late than never.’ ”
“Send. ‘Request permission to lay alongside.’ ”
Sixty seconds later, the chief reported, “ ‘Permission granted,’ sir.”
“Put the boat alongside, Oberleutnant Müllenburg,” von Dattenberg ordered. “Carefully. We don’t want to ram her.”
As the U-405 inched carefully up to the Ciudad de Cádiz, a huge watertight door near the waterline swung outward from her hull. A cushion— a web of old truck tires—was put over the side, and a series of neatly uniformed seamen tossed lines to crewmen of U-405 standing on the submarine’s deck.
As the lines were made tight, von Dattenberg saw neatly uniformed officers lined up behind a man with the four gold stripes of a captain on his sleeves. And then he saw that all the uniforms were not naval. Three of them were black.
The SS! What the hell is that all about?
Two gangways—one a simple ribbed plank, the other with rope railings— were put out from the Ciudad de Cádiz. The gangways were nearly level with the deck of U-405, with a slight upward incline.
If there was any fuel in my tanks, there would be a slight downward incline.
“You have the conn, Erich,” von Dattenberg said. “The chief and I are going aboard that absolutely beautiful ship.”
“Jawohl, Herr Kapitän.”
Von Dattenberg and the chief of the boat climbed down from the conning tower and made their way to the gangplank with the rope railings.
The U-boat commander suddenly remembered his appearance. His beard was not neatly trimmed. He wore a sweater that was dirty and full of holes, a pair of equally dirty and worn trousers, a uniform tunic that was missing buttons, grease-soaked, oily tennis shoes, and an equally filthy brimmed cap.
He marched up the gangplank, not touching the railing, and stopped just inside the Ciudad de Cádiz. There he saluted.
"Kapitänleutnant von Dattenberg, commanding U-boat 405,” he announced. “Request permission to come aboard.”
He saw that everyone was saluting as he had, by touching the brims of their uniform caps. Everyone but the SS officers—they gave the Nazi straight-armed salute.
“Permission granted,” Capitán José Francisco de Banderano said, then walked to the end of the gangplank and offered his hand. “Welcome aboard, Kapitän. I am Capitán de Banderano, master of the Ciudad de Cádiz.”
Von Dattenberg clicked his heels.
“Perhaps you would care to join me in my cabin, Kapitän, while my engineering officer shows your man our refueling facilities?”
“You are very kind, sir.”
“Make yourself comfortable, Kapitän,” de Banderano said when they were in his cabin. “Perhaps taking a chair at the table might be best. I somehow suspect that you will be gracious enough to accept my offer of a little something to eat.”
“With all respect, Capitán,” von Dattenberg replied not unpleasantly, “I’ll hold off on eating until my crew has had a little something.”
“I’ve taken the liberty of ordering my stewards to send sandwiches aboard to give a little something to eat to half of your men, while the other half come aboard and go to the galley for a little something. Does that meet with your approval, Kapitän?”
“You are indeed very kind, sir.”
“How does ham and eggs sound for a little something for you, Kapitän?”
“Like manna from heaven, Capitán.”
De Banderano picked up his telephone and dialed a number.
“Ham and eggs to my cabin immediately,” he ordered. Then he went to a cabinet and came back with a bottle of Johnnie Walker scotch.
“I regret that when the Ciudad de Cádiz was turned over to me by the Kriegsmarine they somehow failed to ensure that she had even one bottle of schnapps in her supplies. Can you force yourself to drink this decadent English whiskey? I brought this from my previous command.”
“Under the circumstances, I think I can force myself,” von Dattenberg said.
De Banderano poured three fingers of scotch in each of two glasses and handed one to von Dattenberg.
“We found each other,” de Banderano said. “I wasn’t sure it was going to happen.”
Von Dattenberg nodded solemnly. “I was down to between six and maybe nine hours of fuel,” he said.
Their eyes met for a moment, then de Banderano touched his glass to von Dattenberg’s. They took healthy swallows of their drinks.
Von Dattenberg exhaled audibly, then took another healthy sip, draining his glass.
De Banderano poured more for him and asked, “At the risk of being indelicate, Kapitän, would you mind a suggestion about your uniform?”
“A decent burial at sea?” von Dattenberg said. “What do you suggest I do with it?”
“We have clothing stocks aboard. If you will give me your measurements, by the time you have a shower, the ship’s tailor will have a proper uniform for you.”
“For my crew, too?”
De Banderano nodded, then said: “I think they, too, would prefer to wait until they’ve had a little something to eat.”
“At the risk of being indelicate, Capitán, my underwear is as dirty as my outerwear. ”
De Banderano nodded.
“Once you give me your sizes,” he said, “by the time you come out of there, there will be fresh underwear.”
He pointed at a door that von Dattenberg correctly suspected led to the Master’s Bath. Then he handed von Dattenberg a pencil and a notebook so that he could write down his sizes.
Ten minutes later, Capitán de Banderano was not in his cabin when von Dattenberg came out of the shower wrapped in a towel. But there was clean white underwear on the table. And an array of plates under chrome domes.
He had not shaved, and he wasn’t sure if that was because he thought it would be impolite to use de Banderano’s razor or because he had come to like the beard.
He took the underwear back into the Master’s Bath and put it on, then went to the table. Reminding himself that if he ate like a pig he was probably going to throw up, he sat down and started carefully lifting the domes.
He ate everything the domes had concealed, and was wondering when his stomach would rebel when there was a knock at the door.
“Come.”
A steward, young and blond and in a white jacket, came into the room carrying a uniform on a hanger.
He gave a Nazi salute and barked, “Heil Hitler!”
Von Dattenberg didn’t return the salute, but asked, “You’re German?”
“Rottenführer Plinzer, Herr Kapitän,” the boy barked.
Von Dattenberg took the uniform.
“That will be all, Plinzer. Thank you.”
“Jawohl, Herr Kapitän,” Plinzer said, threw out his arm, barked, “Heil Hitler!” again, then stood there, obviously waiting for von Dattenberg to return the salute.
He almost didn’t.
Fuck the Nazis and their salute!
What’ll this kid do, report me to one of the SS officers?
And, anyway, what the hell could they do to me on a submarine-replenishment vessel off the Falkland Islands?
For that matter, what the hell is the SS doing on a submarine-replenishment vessel off the Falkland Islands?