The captain shook his head. Bad, but not as bad as the air raids of early April. “Read me the designations,” he ordered. “But quietly.”
“U-325, missing with all hands. No cause known. U-879, sunk by warship patrol. U-1107, lost by aircraft in the Bay of Biscay …”
“Bay of Biscay? More like the valley of the shadow of death,” mumbled Doctor Goering to no one in particular.
“U-2359, 2521, and 3032 presumed lost to aircraft,” continued the radio operator. “And the U-3502 has been deemed un-repairable from an earlier attack.”
“The U-2521?” asked the captain. “That was Heinz Franke’s boat, no?”
“I don’t know,” admitted the radio operator.
“Was he a friend?” asked the doctor.
“Not as such,” said the captain. “But I know the family.”
“Were you able to decode the message from this morning?” the radio operator gingerly inquired. “I was unfamiliar with the cypher.”
“Stop probing,” said the captain with a wry smile. “If you were meant to know the message, you would know the message. Doctor — please join me as I address the crew.”
Doctor Oskar Goering could do little but nod and stand beside his captain. He could scarcely imagine the weight of command. His young friend was like the oak core of ever-greater nesting dolls, bearing the expectation of the surrounding men, the pressure of the ocean around their tiny submarine, the hostile airplanes and destroyers that circled like locusts, even the massing Allied armies at the Fatherland’s borders.
With one deep sigh, the captain took the intercom phone from beside the attack periscope and cleared his throat.
“Crew of the U-3531, come to attention,” he began, the intonation of his voice giving no evidence as to his forthcoming message. “This is your Kapitanleutnant speaking. We have received urgent orders from Naval High Command that I will now relay to you.”
The captain took another halting breath before continuing, steadying himself against the periscope.
“All Underseebooten,” he continued. “Attention all. Cease fire at once. Stop all hostile action against Allied shipping.”
Murmurs whispered throughout the command compartment, turning to hissed whispers. The doctor feared they’d soon turn to a roar.
“The orders continue,” said the captain. “It reads as follows: My U-Boat men. Six years of war lie behind you. You have fought like lions. An overwhelming material superiority has driven us into a tight corner from which it is no longer possible to continue the war. Unbeaten and unblemished, you lay down your arms after a heroic fight without parallel. We proudly remember our fallen comrades who gave their lives for Füehrer and Fatherland. Comrades, preserve that spirit in which you have fought so long and so gallantly for the sake of the future of the Fatherland. Long live Germany. It is signed Grand Admiral Doenitz. Orders end.”
Silence rang through the submarine like a gong, a profound, ear-ringing silence only experienced after a falling bomb has ripped through a city block — or when years of total war come to an abrupt end.
“I will add a measure of my thoughts,” said the captain into the intercom. “Men, we have fought like comrades and died like brothers. I am eternally honored to have served with every one of you. We must now steel ourselves to push through this veil, whether that veil be wet with tears or red with hatred. I intend to return us to Germany and place our fates at the feet of our conquerors. Men — brothers— we have survived the war; may we now survive the peace to come.”
The dam broke with fifty-seven simultaneous shouts of despair and joy, insistences of disbelief, shattered expectations and uncertainty.
Ferret-faced Political Officer Oberleutnant Boer pushed his way to the foremost of the captain’s congregants, shoving aside ruddy Diesel Obermaschinest Baeck and the aghast radio operator.
“Lies!” Boer shouted, waving a finger in the captain’s impassive face. “American, British lies!”
“I’ve verified the code personally,” said the captain. “The orders are from Admiral Doenitz’s hand to my mouth— and Oberleutnant Boer, be well advised that I do not owe your rank an explanation.”
“Orders?” snarled Boer as he nearly ripped open the lapel of his uniform to reach inside his interior breast pocket. “These orders of which you speak? I have orders as well — secret orders from the Führer’s inner circle! In the event of a collapsing war effort or sabotage from within, we are to sail to Argentina to regroup. Captain, this very vessel has the weapons necessary to turn the tide. We are the key to beating back the mongrel races — but instead, you tell us these lies of surrender?”
The captain’s mouth had just begun to twitch with an infuriated response when out of nowhere a fist flew into Boer’s face, snapping across the young man’s jawline with shattering force, instantly dropping the political officer in a sprawling heap on the floor. Ruddy, affable mechanic Baeck had become a human cudgel, his teeth gritted and his brow knotted as he continued the assault, throwing his body atop the political officer and raining down blow after blow. The doctor recoiled in horror — not for the act, but because of the beloved man committing it.
Shouting officers dragged the two men apart. The political officer was now dazed and bleeding as the bloody-knuckled mechanic struggled against the interventionists. In the confusion, the doctor noted a flashing metallic glint in the captain’s hand as he drew a Luger pistol and drew aim at the beloved mechanic.
“Striking a superior officer is a capital offense,” intoned the captain, cocking the hammer as Baeck’s eyes widened in surprise.
“I want him shot,” shouted Boer, yanking himself free of the two men who’d helped him to his feet. “And anyone who sympathizes with his cowardly—”
The captain’s face twisted in anger as he shifted his aim from the mechanic to the political officer, pulling the trigger in an instant, the pistol blast ringing through the tight command compartment. Blood spurted from a spec-sized hole under Boer’s unseeing left eye as the young, smoothfaced man crumpled to the metal deck.
Silence again took hold as the captain holstered his pistol.
“Release Obermachinest Baeck,” he commanded to his men. “Baeck, return to your duties at once. As for Oberleutnant Boer, perhaps peacetime will elevate fewer such men. Prepare his body for immediate burial at sea.”
No one moved.
“I will have order on my ship,” growled the captain with an icy voice, the coldest the doctor had yet heard. “We few, we lucky few, have survived all manner of wartime and loss; we have survived, unlike so many of our brothers in arms. I would prefer my men to survive the peace, uneasy as it may be. Doctor Goering, I will need you for one final task before you are dismissed.”
“Yes, Captain,” said the doctor, following as the captain turned 180 degrees on one heel and stomped from the command compartment, leaving the political officer’s body behind.
“We have a duty to inform our Japanese guests,” said the captain as he purposefully strode towards their cabin door, the two men once again finding themselves alone.
“And you require me for this notification?” asked the doctor, not wholly understanding.
“You’ll see,” said the captain, knocking three times on the door and standing at attention. “Dealing with these Japs isn’t like dealing with a proper German. Perhaps notification is too strong a word. Müllschuss might be more appropriate.”
The doctor pondered for a moment. Müllschuss, or “garbage-shot” referred to the days’ collected trash as it was blasted from an empty torpedo tube and into the abyss. Normally so deft at hiding his feelings, the young captain had just revealed his true sentiment of the submarine’s foreign passengers — a wish to eject them from the submarine, like so much garbage.