Someone says it’s 8 PM already, though here it’s always nighttime, or daytime, or some uncertain thing that’s not night or day, just the artificial light of the fluorescent bulbs in this enclosed tube. The CO has ordered us to lift off from the bottom; everyone who’s on duty goes to their stations. In the forward section, someone puts back all those uncomfortable life jackets that most of the guys have taken off. I’ve found my book again, in the middle of the mess that was left behind when the bunks were taken down, the book about the animal in his labyrinth, so I sit on the floor, on top of a little pile of clothes, near one of the lights that are always on, and I start to read. Those who aren’t at their stations are still curled up in some cleared spot on the ground, trying to sleep. Now they turn off the engines and we float, carried along by a current that leads us toward the patrol area assigned to us around the islands. We’re positioned to snorkel and change air. In the torpedo area, Grunwald helps Heredia wrap the handles of other tools. Suddenly the air circulation noise stops and we all know that happens when the sonarman needs more silence so he can identify a noise: down here, listening is like seeing. There’s a piercing silence; an officer whispers the order to cover our combat posts, an order that circulates from man to man; before me I see feet stuffed into socks or sneakers; someone remarks that the noises might indicate a group of boats that seem to be returning from Puerto Argentino. Could they have bombed anything? Grunwald asks softly, but the question remains floating until it dissolves into the thick air surrounding us because there’s no time for answers, or there’s no energy for those answers we don’t want to hear. We submerge again, to hide on the bottom once more, till they pass over us; we can’t shoot off torpedoes here, so we remain quiet and still, or there won’t be enough air. The buzz of circulating air returns, the lights are turned off, leaving only the most essential ones: I can’t read anymore. Might as well try to sleep a little. Almaraz informs the Executive Officer that the amount of CO2 is 1.2 and if it keeps going up we’re going to have to control the oxygen supply. Egea comes by with a tray, offering glasses of juice, the only thing there is to drink. The CO decides to authorize Almaraz to start controlling oxygen, we’re at the limit of our breathable supply, and of course our nerves and fear don’t help; more air gets used up: Will we be doomed to suffocate here, to lose our strength slowly, fall asleep and die, or will we be doomed to explode into pieces because of some torpedo or depth bomb that eventually will find us? But no one dares to ask the question. What’s for sure is that there’ll be no lit stove or hot food today. The Executive Officer bursts out of his cabin, scratching his head and walking toward the command post: Excuse me, Captain, sir, permission to smoke; the CO stands there looking at him as if he can’t quite understand, turns his head, looks at Almaraz; then he confronts the inquiring eyes of the Executive Officer, who’s already started to pull a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket. Maceda, we’re controlling oxygen, he replies dryly; Oh, okay, sorry, he says as he replaces the cigarette in the pack; Go and rest like the other men, the CO adds; then Maceda turns on his heels and returns to his bunk. I feel tired, straighten out the clothing and blankets I’ve settled on top of, feel something compact and hard with my hand and pull aside the blanket: it’s the jar of capers. I grab onto it like it’s the wood that’s going to save me from this shipwreck. I close my eyes.
I’m awakened by Rocha announcing that he has a bad headache and a very dry nose; it seems the others have the same symptoms because the nurse goes around distributing aspirins to everyone who needs them; I don’t take anything, I don’t feel anything unusual, and if I did have pain I’d rather just put up with it and let it go away by itself. We’re going to rise to snorkel level, which is to say we’re staying at around sixteen meters below sea level, but with the snorkel outside, to change the air and charge the batteries. Somebody says it’s five AM; we’ve been on the bottom for almost a day. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever see daylight again. For now these lights are turned on and I’m fine with that, I go back to my book, trying to find the page where I left off. There’s activity in the galley. Loza is making a rice stew that we’ll all eat while sitting on the floor or leaning against whatever we can find, trying not to make any noise at all. A strong smell of shit invades the atmosphere, which always happens when we snorkel, even more this time, after so many hours of being submerged and without venting. The animal curls up in one of his favorite places in his den, and stays there as if he wants to sleep, but he doesn’t want to sleep, he just plans to stay there, calm and still, smelling the scents of the accumulated prey in the central area, but he’s overcome by drowsiness and after a while falls sound asleep.
We’re still sailing northeast, says someone nearby; it looks like we’re heading toward the María zone, the area we’ve been assigned to patrol. One part of the crew occupies its posts, the rest are now setting up the bunks again, putting them back in their places, creating a little order. While we snorkel they raise the antenna to see if any news of what’s going on outside can be reached through Radio Colonia in Uruguay; it’s the only way to find out anything in this enclosed cylinder, buried at the bottom of the ocean; apparently Argentine radio stations aren’t reliable, as someone suggested a few days ago. We have no news through official channels either. A couple of guys stand around the radio, someone asks for the equipment to be connected to the speaker beside the galley so we can all hear, the CO says no, making noise isn’t safe, if there’s any important news he himself will pass it along to the crew, we don’t need rumors and distractions, let everyone go on doing his own job. The area is cleared; the Executive Officer, who is among those huddled around the radio, suddenly stands up, goes over to the CO, and whispers something to him, but I can’t quite hear it from where I am; the CO’S expression changes, now he looks worried, he shakes his head no, don’t communicate anything till it’s official, I think I can read his lips, but I’m not really sure he actually said that. I don’t know exactly how, I don’t understand what he’s saying, but it’s clear that the second-in-command persists, his gestures looked annoyed, and again a refusal from the CO. The Executive Officer returns to the officers’ cabin, goes inside and closes the door. The CO takes up his route again from the command post to his cabin; once he gets there, he turns around to resume the return trip, from his cabin to the command post.
It seems like I’ve slept for quite a while. I stand up to stretch my legs, which have gone numb. Then an officer spreads the announcement that the CO wants to talk to all crew members who are awake. A group of men quickly forms between the galley and the command post, around eighteen of them, all in suspense. It’s just been confirmed that the cruiser General Belgrano has been sunk. No one says anything, some make fists at the ends of their dangling arms, others close their eyes, others open their mouths without letting a word escape, others smack their foreheads, while still others rub the backs of their heads vigorously; the CO surveys their expressions with a glance; one of the group, breaking that uncomfortable silence, says that there were four submariners on the cruiser; no one knows yet if there are survivors, the CO adds; the Executive Officer is there, too; he exchanges a look with the CO when the captain orders the men back to their posts. I stay where I am, beside the periscope; the second-in-command addresses the CO; he tells him something in such a quiet voice that I can only make out random phrases: computer… inefficiency… helpless… offensive capacity. The CO lets him talk and then replies with words that disintegrate without reaching me, through air that is now almost solid. The second-in-command turns and walks away. The snorkel operation is over, the batteries are charged, the air has been replenished, and immersion maneuvers begin.