Eva checked the charge on the batteries, and then set the frequency. Listening carefully one last time in the near darkness, she made sure that she could hear no one moving in the house below. And then Eva switched on the radio and began to send her message.
Chapter 4
Deep beneath the Atlantic Ocean, Albert Zumwald lay in his narrow cot and tried not to think about the crushing black water beyond the steel hull of U-351. He had become used to the claustrophobia of the submarine, the constant smell of dirty socks, the lack of privacy, the dampness that clung to his pillow and everything else. But even after months at sea, Zumwald did not consider himself to be a true submariner. He still got a sick feeling in his belly at the thought of being under the ocean in an oversize tin can.
His fingertips drifted up to touch the metal skin above his head and came away wet with condensation. The deep thrumming of the diesel engines now seemed to be as natural as his own breathing.
Such was the life of a submariner. Not that he had asked for this duty. Being assigned to submarines was just plain bad luck, like being dealt a bad hand in a card game. His chief qualifications for U-351 seemed to be that he spoke English fluently, knew the basics of radio operation — and that he was short. Not short enough, he thought ruefully as he tried to get comfortable in the bunk. His ankles were hooked uncomfortably over the rails at the end of the bunk; when that became too much to bear he had to bend his knees to fit in the bed. When he slept, it was an hours-long battle between his ankles and his knees, so that when he finally climbed down he could barely walk. At first, Zumwald had complained about the bunk, but then the warrant officer coming by one day had offered to shorten his legs for him. The man had meant it as a joke but there was a certain glint of madness in the warrant officer’s eye after months at sea, so Zumwald had decided to keep his mouth shut from then on.
Across the narrow aisle, he watched as Hans Hecht’s hand worked with a suspicious rhythm beneath his gray sheet. During the long voyage, Hecht wasn’t the only one who had given in to his urges, but from across the aisle Zumwald had observed the youth take matters in hand with annoying frequency. Hecht was from Bremmen, and barely a day over eighteen, so his enthusiasm was somewhat understandable. Then again, the warrant officer had noticed this transgression as well and offered to cut off the boy’s hand — or worse — but had not made good on the threat so far, either, but Zumwald suspected it might only be a matter of time.
Zumwald ignored the motion under the sheet and spoke instead to Peter Bueller, who was stretched out in his own bunk, attempting to put himself to sleep by reading a stale copy of the Frankfurter Allgemeine newspaper.
“How about a game of cards?”
Bueller groaned. “Haven’t you won enough off me already?”
“Suit yourself. But you’ve only been reading the same newspaper there for six weeks. I’ll give you a chance at winning a Zane Grey western I took off one of the engine room oilers yesterday. Knights of the Range.”
“Count me in.” Bueller sat up. His arms, pale from lack of sunshine, were white as mashed potatoes. Zumwald wondered if all the crew looked that bad, himself included. “Hecht, stop pulling at that nubbin and let’s play a game of cards.”
Zumwald smiled, though he was careful to hide it by keeping his face to the submarine bulkhead. He knew they could get the boy, Hecht, in on the game as well. Zumwald had become the most notorious card player on U-351. They might have refused to play at this point if it hadn’t been for sheer boredom. He was looking forward to winning a few more Reichsmarks off his bunkmates when the warrant officer came by and tapped him on the shoulder. “You’re wanted on the bridge, Zumwald,” he said. “The captain is about to shit a brick waiting for you. There’s a message coming in.”
“Damn.”
Zumwald rolled out of the bunk, his stiff knees almost sending him toppling to the deck. He cursed his bad fortune at having forgotten the scheduled radio contact because it fell outside his normal duty hours. The captain would give him hell.
He crossed the length of the submarine as quickly as he could, banging his head and then his elbow on a hatch. Space was so valuable on U-351 that nearly everything had a double function or had been squeezed between the pipes and fittings. Men pressed themselves against the walls to let him pass. He nodded at the other crew, most of them in T-shirts gone gray. The older men wore beards but some of the replacement crew was so young that they had only peach fuzz on their pale faces. Losses for the U-boat wolf pack in the Battle of the Atlantic were so great that Germany was practically robbing the cradle to crew its boats now.
Was it his imagination or did some of the crew look at him with the sort of pity reserved for a man on the way to the gallows? As he got closer to the bridge he understood why. He could hear the captain ranting about unreliable fools. The captain glared at him when he entered the bridge. The faces of the other officers looked anxious.
“Zumwald, you stupid bastard, I ought to have you shot out of the torpedo tubes,” the captain shouted at his radio operator. Zumwald gulped and drew himself to some semblance of attention. The commander of U-351 was a good Nazi, right down to the portrait of Der Fuhrer in his quarters. He was clean-shaven and insisted that his officers wear regulation uniforms while on duty, which was something of an exception compared to the dress standards on other U-boats. The captain scowled at Zumwald’s feet; in his rush to get to the bridge, Zumwald realized he had forgotten to put on shoes. He was forced to stand at attention in his stockings.
“I am sorry, Herr Kapitan.”
“Get those headphones on!”
As Zumwald scrambled to the radio alcove, the captain gave orders to bring the submarine to periscope depth. The periscope was raised, causing seawater to rain down into the bridge, and the captain spun in a circle, scanning the horizon. U-351 was most vulnerable when riding the ocean surface, especially this close to shore. Zumwald didn’t have to look through the periscope to know they must be in sight of land to receive the broadcast from the Abwehr agent in Washington. He suspected that they might actually be in Chesapeake Bay, if he remembered his geography lessons. No wonder the captain was shouting at him and the other officers looked so nervous. The waters this close to shore must be crawling with U.S. Navy anti-submarine patrols. Submarine killers, for short.
Working the radio took a light touch. Zumwald’s fingertips caressed the dial. In the headphones, he heard a crackle of static, then a jumble of sound snatches of jazz, a news broadcast, and chatter between two American Coast Guard patrols that sounded so clear they must be dangerously close.
Then he heard her. Even slightly distorted by the radio waves, it was a beautiful voice. Just faintly husky. Snowbird. Zumwald imagined that she had a face to match, this mysterious woman who spied for the Abwehr and risked all their lives to radio the information once each week. This is Snowbird, I repeat, Snowbird. Priority message. The Ironworker is coming. Repeat. The Ironworker arrives January first. Over.
Zumwald scribbled as fast as he could, taking down the message. The broadcast was made in English because it drew less attention to itself. Someone would have noticed a jumble of German words on the American airwaves. Nobody on the submarine knew the significance of the message, not even the captain. It would be Zumwald’s job to encrypt Snowbird’s words into code. Then U-351 would move far out into the Atlantic to transmit the message home. Fifty-two men risking their lives for a beautiful voice saying a few words in English. The Ironworker is coming. Zumwald slipped off the headphones and sighed. He ought to know by now that war didn’t make any sense.