Zumwald picked himself up, discovering that he had landed in a puddle of seawater and the seat of his trousers was now wet. As the crew scrambled to follow the captain’s orders, they kept making furtive glances at the new arrival to U-351. In dire situations, U-boats had on occasion been met on the open ocean to resupply or for emergency repairs to be made. It was highly unusual for a submarine to take on a passenger at sea.
Wrapped in a slicker, the man who had come aboard stood silently as orders and activity burst around him like shells. He was lean and much taller than the submariners, with the appearance of someone who was used to keeping quiet and observing. The only part of him that looked restless were his pale eyes, which moved constantly around the bridge, taking in everything that was happening. His right hand clenched the strap that held the rifle across his back. The weapon was wrapped in oilcloth, but there was no mistaking the shape of what the cloth protected. Zumwald couldn’t see what uniform the man wore — if any — and any badge of rank was hidden under the slicker.
Zumwald stripped off his own slicker and stowed it with the others. He was no expert at navigation, but was surprised when he heard the captain put them on a heading that would apparently take them back exactly the way they had come. It seemed impossible that they had made a mad dash across the north Atlantic just to pick up this man, and were now returning to the U-boat’s prowling grounds just off the United States coast. He started to leave the bridge but the first mate’s sharp voice froze him in place.
“Zumwald! Always skulking, aren’t you? Make yourself useful and take our passenger with you,” the first mate said. “Find him a bunk in the seamen’s quarters and get him settled.”
“Yes sir.”
Well, thought Zumwald, here was a clue at least. The man wasn’t an officer if he was being bunked with the rank and file. Then again, one had to take what space there was on U-351. He jerked his chin at the newcomer. “Come on,” he said.
“Zumwald, what are you doing?” the kapitanleutnant demanded. “Take that sea bag with you!”
Muttering curses under his breath, Zumwald reached down and grabbed up the bag, nearly staggering under the weight. No wonder the damn thing had knocked him down on the deck. He led the way through the U-boat’s single passageway. Playing babysitter now to the new arrival and hauling his baggage was almost too much. It was bad enough that he’d been sent on deck on a winter’s night — one slip and the sea would have swallowed him up. He would like to see them find someone else on U-351 to decipher radio messages. Or figure out what the Americans were jabbering about. He thought with bitter amusement that maybe they would have Bueller give it a try. He could pick out words like “six gun” and “saddle up” or maybe “tumbleweed.” All highly useful words to the war effort. The rest would be a jumble to his ears.
Zumwald slung the sea bag over one shoulder and made a point of banging it against everything he could. The effort wrenched his shoulder, but he didn’t care. Zumwald held his tongue, determined not to be friendly. But the man behind him didn’t say a word, not so much as asking a question. Zumwald glanced back to make sure the man was still following him. Most people were curious the first time they came aboard a submarine. Others were overcome by phobias they might not have known they had, but if the rush of water against the steel hull and the thought of the ocean’s crushing depths beyond made the newcomer uncomfortable, he didn’t show it.
“What have you got in this thing?” Zumwald finally demanded, struggling under the weight of the sea bag. “Bricks?”
“Bullets.”
“Ah.” Zumwald moved more carefully after that, trying not to bang the sea bag around so much. When they reached the sleeping quarters, he eased it down on the lone empty bunk. Well-thumbed magazine and books covered the stained mattress.
“You can have this one,” Zumwald said, starting to push the books aside. “It used to belong to one of the engineer’s mates.”
“What happened to him?” the newcomer asked.
“Shark got him.”
Hecht had somehow beaten them back and he laughed at Zumwald’s explanation. The young submariner had shucked off his wet clothes and was lounging on his bunk. “No, no, it wasn’t a shark at all. He was the one who disappeared in that whorehouse in St. Nazaire. He went in and he never came back out. Those French girls, you know.”
The newcomer raised his eyebrows. “A third possibility might be that he drowned in bullshit,” he said. “But if it’s an empty bunk, I’ll take it.”
He took off his slicker, revealing a Wehrmacht uniform. There were sergeant’s marks on his collar and the uniform was brand new. However, one look at the decorations on the man’s pristine uniform revealed that he was no fresh recruit. It was hard to miss the Iron Cross. Zumwald recognized badges for the campaigns in Poland and Russia. Along with these, there was a ribbon he did not know.
“What’s that one for?” he asked.
“The sniper school at Einbeck.”
“That would explain the rifle,” Zumwald said. “Just a bit of advice, but a rifle isn’t much use on a submarine. There aren’t any windows to shoot out of.”
He and Hecht watched with some interest as the newcomer sat on the bunk and unwrapped the rifle. The oilcloth fell away to reveal what, to Zumwald’s eyes, looked like a battered weapon. The wooden stock was nicked and scarred, and the bluing on the barrel was patterned with scratches. The rifle might have seen hard use, but it was obviously well maintained. The battered wood gleamed and the metal was well-oiled. There was nothing elegant about the rifle; in fact, it looked as brutal and workaday as a shovel. But what caught Zumwald’s attention was the telescopic sight affixed to the top of the barrel, just above the bolt action.
“That’s not a Mauser,” said Bueller, returning from his post at the torpedo tubes.
“He’s an expert on guns from reading American Westerns,” Zumwald explained.
The sniper looked up at Bueller. “He’s right. It’s a Mosin-Nagant. It’s a standard-issue Russian rifle, but it shoots better in the cold and it takes a lot of abuse. This is the work horse of rifles.”
“Looks more like a mule to me,” said Hecht, coming up and grabbing the rifle in both hands to get a better look at it.
The knife appeared so quickly that nobody saw where it came from. Later, Zumwald and Bueller would decide that it must have been in the sniper’s boot. The sniper kept one hand on the rifle and with the other he slid the blade up one leg of Hecht’s boxer shorts. Hecht sucked in his breath and his eyes got big.
“Don’t touch my rifle unless you want to lose something important,” the sniper said, his voice cold as the shiny blade in his hand.
Hecht let go so fast the rifle might have been burning him. The knife flashed fast as a fish and disappeared.
Hecht retreated to his own bunk and sat down. “I wasn’t going to take it,” Hecht started to protest. “You don’t —
“Shut up, Hecht,” Zumwald said quietly. He knew better than to argue with a man whom U-351 had picked up after a rendezvous with a battleship in the north Atlantic. A sergeant who was a veteran of the Winter War and who wore a sniper’s insignia and the Iron Cross. If he had gone ahead and used the knife on Hecht, nothing would have come of it.
Hecht drew a sheet up to his chin and sulked. The sniper rummaged in the sea bag until he found an oily rag, then began wiping down the rifle. When he finished, he pulled off his damp uniform. A raw scar ran the length of the sniper’s side. Then the newcomer rolled himself in a blanket and went to sleep with the rifle beneath him. Zumwald was impressed that the sniper could fall asleep so quickly, but then, a man learned to do that on the battlefield. The fact that he slept with his rifle was more unusual. Even a little crazy. But he wasn't about to say anything to the sniper about it. Zumwald thought about what had happened to Hecht and decided he liked his nuts just the way they were.