Codes of courage, p.36
Codes of Courage, page 36
Recollection of the ride on the launch was fuzzy, but Rolf was fairly certain the blond man had been the one who’d spoken to him in the dark of the U-boat, telling him not to flail. The officer pacing with a grim look on his face was the one who’d gotten Rolf onto the launch, then the injured man had been fished from the sea and laid beside him on the keel of the boat for the voyage to the corvette.
Rolf remembered the injured man from the time he’d stitched up one of the man’s crewmates and given them a bottle of liquor. It didn’t seem likely—that crew had been in the Merchant Navy, not the Royal Navy—but Rolf had been given plenty of time to study the man’s pain-lined face on the voyage over. It matched his memory.
The ship’s medical attendant checked the blond man’s pulse and said something to the woman, who nodded and wiped at her tears. Rolf thought the attendant would pull the blanket across the man’s face, but he strode to Rolf instead. He asked what sounded like a question, but Rolf didn’t speak English. The attendant gestured to Rolf’s head, probably wanting to check the injury, and Rolf nodded his permission. While the attendant poked and prodded, the woman was escorted away and the body covered.
Eventually, the officer who had been pacing came over, along with a young sailor who spoke a smattering of poorly accented German.
“Your name?” the sailor asked.
“Funkmaat Rolf Denhart.”
The man and the officer spoke back and forth, and Rolf broke in during the lag. “My crewmates. Were they rescued?”
The young sailor thought a while before settling on the easiest answer. “Fifteen.”
That meant the majority of the crew was dead, and Rolf had nearly been among their number. He glanced at the officer. “Thank you for rescuing me.”
The officer didn’t seem pleased by Rolf’s comment when it was translated. Perhaps he was upset by the other man’s death or simply not pleased to be tasked with an inadequate translator for the interrogation.
“May I join the others?” Rolf asked. All the men on the U-690 were his crewmates, if not his friends, and he wanted to see who was alive and who was dead. And some of them would want to know he’d survived.
“Sorry. No.”
The answer surprised Rolf, until he thought about it a little further. The Royal Navy didn’t send boarding parties to sinking submarines in order to seek out survivors. They went in search of secrets, and they’d probably found something. Rolf knew they’d been on board, and they didn’t want him to tell anyone. Would they even let him write to Frieda? Or would she mourn him the way the other woman had mourned the blond man? Maybe they’d question him and eliminate him, and Frieda would have real reason to mourn. Rolf swallowed. He had faced death before. He could face whatever was in store for him as a prisoner. Foreknowledge, however, might make it easier to be brave. “What will you do with me?”
“Prison camp in America. Farming and baseball.”
Rolf understood the part about going to America. POWs were unlikely to escape from America, and the convoy was headed west. The farming part he understood too. War took men from the fields, but food still had to be grown. War prisoners were a useful source of workers. Rolf didn’t fear manual labor. Perhaps agricultural work would mean he’d have enough to eat, unlike his father during the last war, who’d been a prisoner in Russia and had nearly starved to death. But the last part he didn’t understand. “What is baseball?”
Chapter 59
Millie had insisted that Karl’s body be draped with two flags. One the flag of Great Britain. One the red-white-red flag of Austria. It might have been unconventional, but the captain had agreed. He was no doubt unused to dealing with widows for burials at sea, and he’d quickly caved.
Now Millie stood with the sailors of the Fireweed and with Karl’s former crewmates from the Hillingdon, Jake Tremblay and Billy Scarlett. The men of the Fireweed wore the uniform of the day rather than their norm of whatever was most practical. All had removed their hats and stood reverently with arms behind their backs.
The words the Royal Navy chaplain read from his prayer book sounded through Millie’s ears. “We, therefore, commit this body to the deep to be turned into corruption, looking for the resurrection of the body when the sea shall give up her dead and the life of the world come through our Lord Jesus Christ . . .”
Millie hadn’t been ready to say goodbye. She wanted so much more—more letters telling her she was loved and understood, more holidays sharing Karl’s family traditions, more stories whispered to their child, more nights of passion and bliss. She’d known the risks when she’d married him, but they had planned for a lifetime together, not for a few rushed leaves and one cold ride in a lifeboat together. The Karl she knew had always been so strong, so determined. How could he be gone?
Millie held a handkerchief in one hand and used it copiously. It was already damp from her unending tears, but she didn’t have a dry replacement. Her throat hurt, and her chest ached with a desperation that felt like it would never slacken.
On an order, two sailors stood at attention beside Karl’s body and, on further order, raised the head of the board, sliding the canvas-shrouded body from beneath the flags into the sea. Someone had put together a bouquet for her. It contained fabric rosettes rather than real flowers—those couldn’t be had so far out to sea. She tossed it into the Atlantic after her husband and watched as it floated on the peaks of two waves before disappearing from view, blurred by tears and distance.
That made it final, as did the bugle playing its mournful notes. She wished Shirley or her parents were beside her to offer comfort. Instead, she was surrounded by near strangers as her husband’s body made its way to the ocean floor. She didn’t even know what they’d used to weight it. Cannon balls were tradition, but she supposed they’d used ammunition from one of the guns. Speculating about the details of the burial was easier than thinking about the gaping hole in her heart.
The war waited for nothing, certainly not for ceremony or grieving. The Fireweed had to catch up with the convoy, so the crew returned to their duties.
“Will you be all right, Mrs. Eckerstorfer?” Sorrow made Mr. Tremblay’s voice tight.
It felt as though nothing would ever be right again, but she couldn’t say that aloud. “I’m not sure yet.” Karl had carried on despite his father’s murder. The city of London had carried on despite the Blitz. Hut Eight had carried on when the Kriegsmarine had added a fourth rotor to the Enigma machine and breaking it had seemed impossible. She would have to carry on too, but at the moment, making it to the end of the day seemed more than she could bear. How would she get on with the rest of a lifetime?
“He loved you a great deal.”
Millie nodded. She’d had all of Karl’s love—but for such a short time. “That fact does not make it easier to say goodbye.”
Mr. Tremblay turned his head, gazing out to sea. “No. I don’t suppose it does. But, um, if you need anything, if there’s anything I can do, ask. He saved my life more than once.”
Billy Scarlett stood beside them. He wiped tears from his cheeks and nodded. “He saved my life, too, ma’am. I want to help if I can.”
Millie swallowed, trying to fight the mix of overwhelming emotions. Pride that Karl could inspire such loyalty, gratitude for the kindness of others, and, overshadowing everything, an enormous grief that made it hard to breathe.
“Mrs. Eckerstorfer?”
She turned to see the man who had led her to sickbay, Sublieutenant Randall.
“We’ve arranged a cabin for you.”
“A cabin?” The Fireweed was a warship, not a passenger ship. The only way she could have a cabin was if one of the crewmen gave up theirs. One of the officers, because the seamen had shared quarters. Karl had written about it in his letters—how all the hammocks barely fit in the modest space and how the water dripped from the ceilings and penetrated everything meant to stay dry.
Randall nodded.
Exhaustion shrouded her as thoroughly as fog shrouded the horizon and uncertainty shrouded her future, so she followed the sublieutenant.
He slowed in a narrow corridor. “I can’t tell you what he was involved in when he died, but I can tell you it was important.”
She wished Karl wouldn’t have done it, whatever it had been. But she couldn’t forget how determined he’d been to strike back against the Nazis, from their very first meeting. Determination plus courage plus war had a way of equaling death. She should have seen it before, but she’d hoped that Karl—and their future—would somehow beat the odds.
“He would have liked to know he’d done something important for the war effort.” She said the words and knew they were true, but that truth didn’t ease her pain.
“He knew.” Randall opened the door to a small cabin for her.
Millie went inside and sat on the bunk. Perhaps knowing his death had been important had made it easier for Karl, but at the moment, it didn’t make it easier for her. She twisted the wedding ring—his wedding ring—around her thumb. She wasn’t superstitious enough to think that losing her own ring had somehow sparked his death, but out at sea, with no other ships in sight . . . it was easy to see why sailors built traditions about all the little things.
The corvette had a full crew, minus one, plus a few castaways and war prisoners, but Millie felt completely alone. Karl was gone, and her family and friends were all very far away. She couldn’t even send them a telegram until she reached port.
A small movement in her abdomen caught her attention. A hiccup. Was her baby also mourning a lost father? Maybe Millie wasn’t completely alone. She still carried part of her family with her. A baby would be a blessing, but now she would have to carry the weight of raising the child all on her own. A blessing . . . and a challenge. For the moment, something to cling to when the man she’d fallen in love with had just been torn away from her.
Chapter 60
17th June 1943
Dear Karl,
Dot gave me a beautiful leather journal with an embossed picture of a seashell on it. She thinks putting my feelings down on paper will help me grieve and heal. I promised to try, but when Judith went down for a nap and Dot left to go shopping, I sat for an hour just staring at the pages, not sure what to write or how to start. Words always flowed in letters to you, so I thought maybe I would try that.
Sometimes I pretend you’re just away on another voyage, that in a few weeks, a telegram will come saying you’ve arrived in port and want to see me. I can almost imagine you holding me in your arms again, but then I remember.
I arrived in New York a week after . . . a week after the Minstrel went down. Dot and little Judith met me at the train station in Baltimore. Strange that those two have become so important to me, and you were so important to me, but you never met either of them.
My parents ought to arrive in another few weeks. I pray their voyage will be uneventful. The baby ought to come at about the same time. I’ll be glad to meet the little one instead of hauling it around with me everywhere. Expecting a baby isn’t exactly comfortable, and being in Maryland in the summer after so many years in Europe . . . well, sometimes I feel as though I’m melting.
What a silly thing to complain about. Being too large and too warm. Grievances much more serious than those keep me awake at night, but I’m not ready to write about them yet.
* * *
6th July 1943
Dear Karl,
Our son was born a week ago. Glenn Lang Eckerstorfer was seven pounds, ten ounces, and twenty inches long. He might be a little larger now. He’s perfectly healthy, as far as the doctor and my parents and Dot can tell. I think he has your eyes, but I’ve been told that can change.
Sometimes I hold him for hours at a time, looking at his sweet nose and his little fingers and his tiny mouth. I already love him so much. I wasn’t sure a heart could love so completely while broken, but there it is. A broken heart can still fall in love. It can remain in mourning and find a new adoration.
I wish you were here. I tell myself that it’s not so different. If you were alive, I would have written to you a little earlier, but you would still be away at sea with little prospect of meeting your son until the end of the war. But it is different, and now I need to find a tissue or a handkerchief before I ruin my journal.
* * *
23rd September 1943
Dear Karl,
I received a George Cross in the mail for you, along with a letter from Uncle Silas. Had I still been in England, I could have gone to the palace and the king himself would have given it to me on your behalf. Instead, my uncle collected it. The package included no explanation of what you did to earn it, but engraved on the medal is “for gallantry.”
I knew you were gallant. What I wish is that you were living.
* * *
8th November 1943
Dear Karl,
Baby Glenn wakes me up at all hours, but in some ways, he’s an easy puzzle to figure out. He cries when he’s unhappy, and then it’s time to feed him or clean him or put him down for a nap. I’m getting better and better at figuring out what he needs. He still has your eyes, Karl. So blue. Sometimes just looking at him makes me feel like crying because I can see him and you can’t, and those eyes of his never cease reminding me of you and what I lost when the sea took you.
Why did you have to go? Couldn’t you have stayed on the Fireweed with me instead of being a hero and disappearing forever? I knew you were in danger every time you went to sea, but couldn’t you have let someone else take the launch out when it needed to leave again?
I know you had your orders. I heard Sublieutenant Randall issue them. But sometimes I feel so angry. At you for dying. At God for letting you die. And at the Nazis for starting this dreadful war.
That’s a harder puzzle to figure out. How can I be angry at you when I loved you so much? And how do I move on when you aren’t coming back, not even when the war ends?
* * *
7th June 1944
Dear Karl,
There was a big invasion yesterday. I wonder if the Fireweed was involved and if you would have still been serving on her had things been different. Dot and I spent most of the day praying and listening to the radio. Maybe this means the war will be over soon.
Glenn isn’t walking yet, but he pulls himself up on everything not taller than him and revels in making messes. He’s a happy infant, as long as he gets enough sleep. He absolutely adores his cousin Judith, and she dotes on him.
He still has your eyes.
* * *
29th October 1944
Dear Karl,
I couldn’t find one of my shoes this morning when I was getting ready for church. Do you remember when you said you wanted to be the one to find my missing shoe when the dog ran off with it? It wasn’t a dog that lost it; it was a toddler. I have only one pair that I can wear to church. Glenn’s growing so fast it’s hard to keep him properly clothed. Clothing isn’t rationed here, but shoes are. Only two pairs per year, even for children growing as fast as he is, so I ended up using my ration coupons for him.
I found the shoe, eventually. We were late to church.
Irving and Shirley are getting married, but I don’t suppose I’ll be going. The thought of getting on a ship again . . . maybe someday, but not while there are U-boats about. I don’t hear as much about the wolf packs as I used to, either because there aren’t as many of them or because I’m not doing war work anymore.
And anyway, it’s not just the U-boats and the ocean crossing. They’ll be getting married much like we did—whenever their leave schedules manage to align—and there probably won’t be much notice. I’m happy for them. Shirley felt like a sister even before my brother became her fiancé. I hope the war doesn’t steal away their happiness the way it stole away ours.
* * *
8th May 1945
Dear Karl,
The war is over, at least in Europe. Can you believe it? We’ve been praying and celebrating and wondering how much longer the war in the Pacific will last.
Dot’s husband is in Europe. Maybe he’ll get to pass through the U.S. on his way to the Pacific. Maybe not.
In any case, I’ve been thinking about where I want to live when the war is over. It might take some time yet to defeat Japan, but Dad helped me come up with a plan. I’m going to use your life insurance money to buy a home with an apartment. Glenn and I will live in the smaller section and we’ll rent out the larger portion. Dad found information about typical rental fees in the area, and I think the budget will work out. I’m starting to look for the right place. Something with a workable floor plan, something near my parents or my sister. I wish you could help with the search.
You’ve been gone for almost two years. I still miss you, and it still hurts every single day, but it no longer hurts every single second.
* * *
10th May 1945
Dear Karl,
Last night, I couldn’t sleep. With the war in Europe over, you could go home to Austria. I’m sure it’s all chaos over there now, but maybe Ingrid is looking for you. I don’t know where she’ll look. You told me about the cellar where you and your papa hid your family’s valuables, but I never asked where Falcon Point is located. Is it near Vienna or Salzburg or Innsbruck or somewhere else entirely? I spent all morning looking through your letters, hoping for a clue. Maybe I’d know it if I saw it, by the way you described the trees and the lake and the manor house. But I haven’t any idea where to start searching.
I wish I could find Ingrid. Tell her how you tried to find her. Tell her all you were able to do to help defeat Hitler. I would have liked to meet her. I would have liked to introduce her to our son. So many lost opportunities. Sometimes I wonder if they’ll ever stop accumulating, pain added to grief added to sorrow.
