Beneath Gray Skies Page 7

  Most of the troops on board seemed to have had the same idea now that the rough weather seemed to be over, and the companionways leading to the deck were crowded with excited soldiers.

  “Smells good,” said David, sniffing appreciatively. And it did, after two weeks of a cabin shared with a dozen other seasick, tobacco-chewing men. “Smells like home,” he said. “Like goin’ down to Goose Creek Bay and the oyster flats.”

  “I kind of forgot you was brought up near the sea,” remarked Tom. He was from North Texas (“little place you never heard tell of, called Claude, just outside of Amarillo”).

  “Sounds like home, too,” said David, listening to the seagulls.

  “Certainly does,” agreed Brian’s voice behind them.

  “Why, are your folks on the coast, too?”

  “Not this coast, worse luck,” said Brian, joining them. “My people live on the East coast, near Hunstanton, if you’ve ever heard of it. Didn’t think you would have done, somehow.” He pointed into the darkness, where a faint light flashed at intervals on the horizon. “I asked one of the ship’s officers where we were, and he told me that was the Eddystone lighthouse. Nearly home for me. So near and yet so far.”

  -o-

  Two days later, the Robert E. Lee made her way up the River Weser, and tied up to the quay in Olslebshausen, one of the dock areas in Bremen. David had been busily copying orders and messages since they had entered the Channel, so it came as no big surprise to him, or to his companions, whom he’d forewarned, when a large bundle of somewhat smelly old clothes was thrown through the door of each stateroom, together with the shouted order to “Take off your uniforms, find some clothes for yourselves and put them on.”

  Wrinkling their noses, the soldiers of David’s stateroom hunted through the mass of clothing to find something that fitted tolerably and didn’t smell too bad.

  Brian, by far the tallest of them, came off worst. His pants stopped short a few inches above his shoes, and his shirt sleeves seemed to barely cover his elbows. It had proved impossible to find any kind of coat that fitted him at all properly, but he wore an overcoat that served as a kind of jacket. The sergeant inspecting them took one look and burst out laughing.

  “Reckon we’ll have to find you something better when we step ashore. That’ll have to do you for now, I guess.”

  Next, they packed their uniforms into their Army knapsacks, and tied their rifles to the knapsacks, with their names and units written on labels, also attached to the knapsacks. Two soldiers from each stateroom were assigned to take the bundles of each group to the mess-room.

  “And now?” asked Tom, returning. He’d been one of the bundle-carriers.

  “We wait,” explained David. “Far as I can remember from what it said on them orders.”

  “Armies the world over, what?” said Brian. “Hurry up and wait. Always the way.”

  And so they waited. When they were finally told to get out of the stateroom and go down the gangplank, the sun had set. David noticed that the Stars and Bars was no longer flying from the mast of the ship, and another flag he didn’t recognize was flapping in the breeze. They were ordered to walk, not march, across the quay into an enormous warehouse.

  “How long do we stay here?” whispered Tom to David.

  “Don’t know. Never saw anything what talked about after this.”

  “C Company orderly, 3rd Battalion, 3rd Alabama, over here at the double,” came the call.

  “That’s me,” said David, and slipped away to join the Captain.

  -o-

  Much to everyone’s surprise, everything was well-organized inside the warehouse, contrasting with the usual Confederate army muddle. “You have to hand it to Jerry, he knows how to keep things clean and tidy,” were Brian’s words when he returned from the row of field latrines that took up a goodly portion of one end of the warehouse. And the food, when it arrived, although the potato soup seemed to consist mainly of water, and the portion of sausage was tiny, was served in unnaturally clean mess tins, and the portions exactly matched the number of men. Usually in the Army of the Confederacy, it seemed that the last thirty or so men in the mess line were fighting for three portions between them.

  “Wonder where they’re getting this stuff from,” remarked Brian. “I know chaps in London who thought the Huns were down to their last horse,” picking shreds of sausage from his teeth. “Never thought I’d see the day when I’d be eating Jerry’s food as his guest.”

  David was kept busy during the next day. Once, when he took papers from the Captain to the Colonel, a good-looking stranger in a helmet and leather coat, with an red armband bearing a strange black hooked cross on a white circle, rose to greet him.

  “Congratulations,” he said, in a strange accent that reminded somewhat David of Mr. Jacobs, his hometown barber. “You are the boy who writes his words so wonderfully.” Like Mr. Jacobs, his “w”s had a tendency to become “v”s.

  “Yes, Major Gurring,” (at least, that’s how the stranger’s name sounded to David), replied the Colonel, “this is the boy who writes so well.”

  “Would you please make your best writing to copy these words onto this card? It is a present to my new wife,” asked the German. He handed a piece of paper to David, who looked at it. He could read the letters, but it made no sense to him at all.

  “Sir, I don’t rightly understand what it says?” David half-questioned the man.

  “Of course you don’t,” explained the German Major. “I did not expect you to be able to read these words of a great German poet. But I will read them to you. Then I will tell you their meaning in English. And when you understand their meaning in English, you can write them in German, yes?”

  David nodded, and the German began his recitation,

  “Über allen Gipfeln

  Ist Ruh,

  In allen Wipfeln

  Spürest du

  Kaum einen Hauch;

  Die Vögelein schweigen im Walde.

  Warte nur, balde

  Ruhest du auch.

  Now I tell you what it means: ‘There is peace over the hilltops, and you can hear scarcely any breath over the trees. The birds in the woods are silent. Just wait a little and you too will have peace.’” He sighed. “Beautiful, no? Written by Gurter, a great German poet.”

  “Sir,” asked David. “Would you please say the German again for me?”

  The Major smiled and did so. “Now write on this card, please,” handing it to David. “With this pen,” handing over an expensive fountain pen.

  “Beautiful!” he exclaimed, after seeing David’s finished handiwork and retrieving his pen. “That will form the centerpiece for the bouquet I will be giving to my wife at her birthday. My congratulations, young man, and my thanks to you, Herr Colonel, for your happy and fortunate suggestion.” He drew himself up to attention, bowed, clicking his heels together, and left them.

  “Reckon the Major likes you, Corporal,” remarked the Colonel. “Guess you’ve helped the Confederacy a lot just now. That Major’s going to be a very important man some day, I figure, and you’ve helped us get on his good side.”

  “Sir?” asked David. “May I take the German poem that he left behind back with me?”

  “Sure. You thinking of learning German?” chuckled the Colonel.

  David showed the paper to Brian when he went back to the company.

  Brian seemed to recognize it, “Goethe,” he said, and read it in German, even better than the German Major, David thought. He told Brian so.

  “What did you say the chap’s name was?”

  “Gurring, I think.”

  “Good-looking chap? Eyes that look straight at you? Big cross thing here?” pointing to his collar.

  “Yes, yes, and yes.”

  “I think your Colonel’s right about this Hermann Goering chappie, David. He’s quite famous and going to be more so. Took over the Red Baron’s squadron, even though he started as an observer, but the other blokes weren’t all that happy ab
out that. He’s not a real Major, you know. He’s promoted himself from Oberleutnant. Oh, and who says crime doesn’t pay?” He chuckled.

  David was startled by this stream of information, most of which seemed to refer to things he had never heard of. What was a Red Baron, for instance, and why would he have a squadron? “Do you know him, then?” he asked Brian.

  “Let’s say I know quite a lot about him, old boy. I hope I know more about him than he knows about me, that’s all.” And with that, he would say no more.

  Chapter 10: Bremen, Germany

  “But where are the people? I make that about a couple of thousand people, all vanished.”

  Henry Dowling wouldn’t admit it, but he felt beaten. Although he spoke German fluently, it was the wrong kind of German, totally unsuited to the dockside areas where he was looking for the Robert E. Lee.

  Tramping what seemed like miles of waterfront, and entering the bars where the longshoremen and dockworkers congregated, a pattern which was becoming all too familiar repeated itself at the first words of his Oxford-accented German.

  Conversation in the bar stopped with an almost tangible silence, and just as suddenly resumed, but on subjects like football, rather than politics or the men’s working lives. The bartender would politely suggest to the overdressed middle-aged stranger that he might be happier at another bar closer to the respectable area of town. Often, to reinforce the suggestion, a few large men would rise from their tables, and stand close behind Dowling. Sometimes he fancied he heard the click of a switchblade. At that point, Dowling would leave, having gained no information. As he left, he would hear the conversations cease, and restart again.

  He bought cheaper clothes at German stores, and left his Savile Row suits in the hotel. His accent still betrayed him as an outsider, though, and the closed society of the waterfront seemed to remain forever a secret to him.

  On what seemed like his hundredth bar, he had a stroke of luck.

  “Back again?” asked the bartender. “Better dressed for the part this time, aren’t you?”

  Dowling looked around him. All the bars looked much the same, but it was true, he had been in this one before. He recognized the model ships behind the bar, especially the U-boat, which had caught his attention on the first occasion.

  “Afraid so,” smiled Dowling. “It’s thirsty work looking for my friend.”

  “You’d like a beer, then?” asked the bartender. It was an offer of some sort of acceptance, and Dowling quickly seized it.

  “Yes please. And one for you, and one for each of my friends,” turning round and grinning like an ape at the four or five heavies who’d materialized behind him.

  “You’re English?” asked one of them.

  “Yes,” replied Dowling. It was fairly obvious and there seemed little point in lying.

  “Good. As long as you’re not one of those Dutchmen, that’s all. Hard-hearted bastards, taking our work away.” There was a general murmur of dissent against the Dutch. The beer arrived. “Come and sit with us.” It was not so much an invitation as an order, and Dowling obeyed.

  “So, Mr. Englishman, what are you doing in Bremen?”

  “I write for one of the London newspapers. I’m writing about the German economy, and how England should be helping German people like you get work and live better.”

  “Does anyone read what you write?” There was a burst of mocking laughter.

  Dowling replied. “There are many Englishmen who would like to see Germany destroyed, and would show no mercy to you or any German. But—” as a babble of protest started to arise, “There are many more Englishmen who think that the war was a mistake, and that England should help Germany become a great nation again. I’m proud to say I’m one of the last group.” The whole speech was delivered with great sincerity, and brought a round of applause, and a few more customers to Dowling’s table.

  “So who should the English and Germans be fighting together? The Bolsheviks in Russia?”

  Not knowing whether he was talking to a Communist sympathizer or not, Dowling turned the question round with a joke. “It’s me who’s meant to be the reporter, interviewing you, not you interviewing me. I need your expert opinion, sir.”

  The others round the table laughed and pressed their companion for his answer. “Well, since you’re asking, my favorite enemy would be the Confederates. Anyone who keeps slaves like that doesn’t deserve any sympathy.”

  “Well, we didn’t treat our blackies very well in East Africa, did we?” came a shout from another table.

  “We didn’t,” admitted the first man. “But then we were wrong to do it. And anyway, they weren’t slaves. I just say it’s flat-out wrong to own other people as if they were property.” He finished his beer, and placed the empty glass significantly in front of him. Dowling called for another round of drinks.

  “Thank you, sir,” said the anti-Confederate dock worker. “I’m thinking that as a good liberal gentleman, those views I expressed on slavery would be similar to your own?”

  “They would indeed,” replied Dowling earnestly. “Your very good health, sir.”

  A lot of beer was drunk, and Dowling’s billfold was significantly emptier and his notebook significantly fuller with his pretended journalistic notes by the time he left the bar. He’d learned nothing of any interest to his mission, though.

  “Feel free to come back any time, sir,” called the barman as he left. About a hundred yards down the street, Dowling heard footsteps running behind him. Closing his fingers round the butt of the Browning automatic that C had insisted he carry with him at all times, but keeping the pistol out of sight in his pocket, he stopped and turned.

  -o-

  One of his bar companions had followed him. Half-expecting to be robbed, Dowling looked for the rest of the gang, but could see no-one. As if he’d guessed Dowling’s thoughts, the other spread his hands wide, keeping them in clear view as he walked forward.

  “I didn’t speak to you back there, but I heard what you were saying about them damn’ Confeds,” said the smaller, somewhat ratty-looking man in American-accented English. “By God, I am glad to be out of that place!”

  “The bar back there?” asked Dowling, deliberately misunderstanding.

  “No, the goddamned Confederate States of America, may the devil take Jeff Davis’s rotten soul to hell!”

  “My sentiments exactly. How long have you been out of the Confederacy, then, Mr.—”

  “Call me Pete. A few years now. Since the end of the European War, anyway. Life here is real tough, but at least there ain’t no slaves here and there’s folks who believe in freedom and equality for everyone, not just the rich folks.”

  “They don’t all think that way in this country,” warned Dowling.

  “I know that, and that’s why I’m going to tell you what I’m going to tell you. There’s a group of no-good scum call themselves National Socialists. They say they’re a worker’s party, but that’s a load of horseshit, if you’ll pardon my French. They’re no better than Jeff Davis and his lot. In fact they’re workin’ alongside Jeff Davis. There’s a ship called the Robert E. Lee came into port just the other night from Savannah, Georgia.”

  “But German ports don’t allow Confederacy ships to dock,” objected Dowling.

  “So they don’t. But I know the Bobby Lee. See, I jumped ship from her in Martinique before I came here. She was flying a Panamanian flag a few days back, and she had another name on her, but I knew her right enough when I saw her come to berth. So I watches her, and guess what?”

  “Tell me.”

  “Just after sundown, the gangplank comes down, and lots of men walk off the Bobby Lee and into this big warehouse and they never come out again. And they was all dressed sort of queer.”

  “How do you mean? Uniforms?”

  “No, that’s my point. They sure as hell weren’t uniforms. They all looked as though they had each other’s clothes on. There was one tall guy, looked just like a scarecrow with his pa
nts legs halfway up to his knees, and his coat sleeves up around his elbows. And then, this is the good part, so listen up close now, a whole load of them brownshirts, the National Socialist private army boys, came by and went into the warehouse an hour or so later. All of ‘em with swastika armbands. Now,” grinning triumphantly. “What do you make of that?”

  “Where’s this warehouse?”

  Pete grinned. “Interested? I’m sorry to tell you, sir, that this will cost you some money.”

  “I’m always happy to spend money in a good cause, Pete, and if I can get this story into my newspaper, it’s a bloody good cause, I tell you.”

  “You’ll pay me in British pounds? These German marks aren’t worth a bucket of warm piss now, and they’re getting to be worth less every day. But I don’t have to tell you that.”