CHAPTER 48

As the ninth of December wore on, the days became shorter and shorter until finally sunrise merged with sunset and there was only a few minutes of ruddy red glare on the icy mountains to mark high noon. That would be time enough to allow the bombers to do their work and on clear nights the stars and the moon made that white world surprisingly light without the sun. The trouble was, there were few clear nights. One blizzard was quickly followed by another, and what the Eskimos called good weather was any wind less than fifty miles an hour and any temperature above fifty below. Still the fjord, with its swift-running currents and great tidal rise and fall, did not freeze, and the ice pack off shore was so driven by winter gales that it formed a less formidable barrier along the coast than it did in summer.

Driven by the knowledge that they must soon attack the Germans, the crew of the Arluk worked as it had never worked before. Every man who was not needed to guard the prisoners and the ship unloaded the heavy depth charges from the hold and carried them in the whaleboat and in the Danes’ launch to the settlement. Because a dog sled could carry only one of the great charges at a time, Nathan and Brit decided that the Danish launch could carry a load of them to a point just short of Supportup, where they could be landed on the coast and dragged up low cliffs there with ropes. This operation awaited only the return of Peomeenie. Paul should not be surprised by his long absence, Brit still kept on saying. In every blizzard Peo undoubtedly would build an igloo out on the ice shelf that extended from the shore for thousands of yards into the sea. The proximity of relatively warm ocean currents there cut the cold in the shelter of an igloo, and by hacking a hole in the ice Peo could catch enough fish to last out the winter if necessary. With his whale oil lamp glowing in his crystal dome, he and Ninoo, his companion, could laugh together until the sun came back to stay.

“I should have told him I wouldn’t pay him unless he got back here fast,” Paul said.

“When you come right down to it, what’s the hurry?” Brit asked.

“While your friend Peomeenie and his damn Ninoo are laughing together, the goddamn Krauts are sending out weather reports, and with those their planes are bombing the bejesus out of every city from Moscow to London,” Paul said. “We’re supposed to break that up. That’s what the hurry is.”

“But not even an Eskimo can go far in a blizzard,” Brit said. “And Peo is very thorough. You kept telling him you want to know where every gun emplacement is. That means he has to cover both sides of the fjord. He’ll have to go inland for miles before he can cross it. I’m sure he’s doing his best and no one in this world could do better.”

Paul was not convinced. His fear that Peomeenie might have been captured or killed was growing. The moaning of the wind and the ruddy glare of the sun during its brief appearances on the horizon seemed to be setting a scene only for disaster. While everyone else worked to maintain the ship, guarded prisoners or drilled with the Eskimos ashore, Paul actually had very little to do, and the long hours he spent idly in his bunk made him feel obscurely guilty. Flags reported that radio signals in a variety of frequencies were pouring from some place nearby to the south, presumably Supportup. Obviously the Germans were carrying out their mission. Perhaps it had been only cowardice that had caused Paul to make these elaborate preparations, instead of sailing into their fjord and just attacking as best he could. Each day Paul checked off on his calendar in the nautical almanac seemed a personal defeat.

There was not a book aboard the ship he’d not read and his memories of the past did not offer much comfort in introspection. For a long while he had avoided thinking about his wife. Sometimes Sylvia came to him in dreams, voluptuous, golden-haired and more eager for love than she had usually been, but such visions just made him wake up hornier than ever and when he was in that mood, he had to be careful not to get furious at Brit and Nathan. He felt peculiar now every time Nathan knew he was alone with Brit and every time he knew she was alone with him. Damn it, they weren’t Eskimos, no matter how much they all respected and needed each other and so forth …

The more Paul thought about his situation, the more ridiculous he appeared to himself. He was an unfaithful husband who brooded about both his wife and mistress being unfaithful. He admired the Eskimos’ freedom from jealousy and possessiveness, but needed at least the ideal of one man and one woman pledging themselves to each other forever and meaning it. Temporary love affairs in time of war were probably inevitable, maybe even necessary to stay alive sometimes, but in the future he wanted at least to hope for something more. He could accept Nathan’s need for Brit and her desire to comfort him, but he found that he did not want to daydream anymore of coming back to her after the war. He didn’t want to ask her to sail around the world with him. Perhaps it was only a white man’s craziness, but if he took a woman on such a voyage he would not want to worry about her running off with any man who needed her, or who offered a jolly hour of laughing together without jealousy or a sense of betrayal. It seemed, in short, that he was hopelessly himself …

Suddenly he began to dream of Sylvia again. Forgetting his hard times with her, her disappointing letters, and his worries about her as a USO hostess, he remembered the day she had dived from the top of the old yawl’s mast. A girl who had done that certainly could grow up to sail a small boat around the world. He remembered the flamboyant way she danced, the vitality of her face, and wondered how he had ever been interested in anyone else. After the war was over she would have outgrown her few disturbing ways and they would sail the South Seas together. Sometimes he would realize that this was an unlikely dream, but he felt that it was one he needed … men in the Arctic tended to create their own women, weaving memories into fantasies. Almost no man on the Greenland Patrol remembered an ugly or nagging wife.

The future with Sylvia would be wonderful, he was sure, but the truth was that he would have no future if he did not find a way to attack the German base efficiently. If he messed up that operation, he would die in the snow or in the freezing sea.

Strangely, the most comforting fantasy of all during those long, long nights of waiting turned out to be one of victory in battle, not love. In his imagination Paul could see the plans he and Nathan had devised working in magnificent detail. First the planes would bomb hell out of the fjord. Before the smoke had cleared, Nathan would explode three tons of TNT in a ring around the bewildered Germans. At that point the Arluk would make her magnificent entrance into the mouth of the fjord with all guns blazing. She would find the hunter-killer, this new Valkyrie, already afire, but would finish her off with one blast from the big bow gun. Then he would rake the Germans, who would be trying to set up their machine guns ashore. Before they even opened fire, Nathan, Guns and thirty well-trained Eskimos would attack them from the rear with automatic rifles, hand grenades, and finally, those murderous-looking knives the men had made. More depth charges would explode all around the Germans. They would give up—they would have no choice. They would beg for mercy, kneeling in the snow …

Somehow the fantasy stopped there—Paul did not want to figure out now exactly what he was going to do with all those prisoners. The fantasy picked up again when Paul sailed back to his base on the west coast, to Narsarssuak. There Commander GreenPat would congratulate him, would put him up for a promotion, for command of a full destroyer, and for medals. He would be flown home for a hero’s welcome. Sylvia would come running into his arms. They would take a honeymoon suite at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel for a month. A second honeymoon much better than his first would be his prize for heroism …

Impatient with those fantasies and almost frightened by their ability to take his mind off any kind of reality, Paul kept his men at gun drill aboard the ship, made sure that Williams was adequately guarding the prisoners and watched Guns show his furry troops how to shoot mortars while Nathan kept an eye on him and Brit tried to teach the natives enough numbers to understand the concept of a weapon’s range.

Finally everything was done that could be done before Peomeenie’s return. Hans still piloted his ski plane for a peek over the mountain on clear moonlit nights. If it had not been for him, Nathan would have started to move his depth charges up the coast toward. Supportup, but he did not want to take any chance of giving up the great advantage of surprise. For a week there was very little to do but wait. Using clay from supplies, which had been sent from Denmark for the native children, Brit constructed a model of the fjord at Supportup-Kangerdula on a table in the schoolroom next to the dispensary for the sick. She used all the information she could get from the charts, the pilotbook and from Eskimos who had been near that place, but the model was badly lacking in detail.

“Peo will be able to finish it,” Brit said. “He sculpts beautiful things from soapstone and walrus tusks. He’ll be able to make a model better than he can draw a map.”

Now all sentences began with “When Peo gets back … When Peo got back, he would be led immediately to the clay model. As soon as he had shown exactly where the Germans were, that information would be radioed to GreenPat, with a request that the place where the light planes were kept be bombed and strafed immediately. If Peo had been able to locate the position of the hunter-killer, she too should be attacked. Nathan had this message already coded and tacked to the bulletin board in the Arluk’s radio shack. Its last paragraph said, “Except for attacking ships and planes, please delay final bombing of base until our ground forces are in position of attack as soon as planes leave. We do not want to give the enemy a chance to dig in again. Amount of time needed for this operation will depend on the weather. Our best guess is a week if conditions we can work in. All our preparations have been made.”

This message was rewritten several times as Paul and Nathan refined their plans. In their initial attack, the Lightnings and bombers should try to take out all German artillery which protected the fjord, as well as the light planes and the hunter-killer, if they could. As soon as this had been done, the Arluk could move into the fjord without waiting for the ground force to arrive. Without getting close enough to take losses from machinegun or small arms fire, the Arluk should tease the Germans into readying all their forces for an attack from the sea.

After consultation with Paul, Nathan gave all these detailed plans to GreenPat in advance. They were promptly approved. Even GreenPat started sending messages which began, “When your native scout returns.…”

“I’m beginning to think we’re waiting for the Second Coming of Christ,” Paul said. “It seems to me that our whole fucking war is coming to a standstill and breathlessly waiting for one damn Eskimo and a woman named Ninoo to quit laughing together and get down to business.”

On a clear moonlit night two days before Christmas Peomeenie and Ninoo drove their dog sled back to the settlement at Angmagssalik as casually as though they had been on a brief Sunday excursion. They were more concerned with greeting relatives and friends than with hurrying to bring their information to the Americans, and Brit might not have known of their arrival for hours if she had not heard the excitement of the dogs. She and Nathan ran to the Eskimo settlement and found Peomeenie in one of the sod huts which was so crowded with his welcoming friends that no one could get in a word edgewise. Peomeenie and Ninoo were ravenously eating a feast of nicely rotted raw seal meat which had been awaiting them.

“For God’s sake ask him what he saw,” Nathan said.

Brit had to push through the tight rings of Peomeenie’s admirers before she could catch his attention. He grinned at her with his mouth full before gulping his food and answering the questions that she kept repeating. They shouted back and forth in the Eskimo language. From Peomeenie’s grins, Nathan guessed that his trip had been successful, but Brit looked astonished when she turned to him and called above the din, “God, I don’t know what’s happening. He says the Germans are all going home. He says not many are left!”

“Going home? How?”

After more excited questions from Brit and more laconic replies from Peomeenie, who continued to grin and eat, Brit said, “He says the little planes and the ship have been taking many Germans out.”

Hell, Nathan thought, the bastards aren’t going home—they’re evacuating a base they know will be attacked and setting up small weather stations all down the coast. That of course is what they came here to do in the first place, and we’ve been sucker enough not to stop them.

“Where’s the ship now?” he called to Brit above the babble. “Ask him where the ship was when he left.”

After a brief exchange, Brit said, “The ship is in Supportup Fjord now. They are loading her with many oil drums.”

“She’s the one who’s going home,” Nathan said. “Her job’s done. Now she’ll load up with their brass and get the hell out of here. Jesus, we’ve been suckered again. Get Peo out of here. We’ve got to take him to see Paul. We still might catch that goddamn ship.”

It was difficult for Brit to give Peomeenie any sense of urgency. If the Germans were going home, he kept asking, why was there anything to worry about?

The first that Paul knew about any of this was the sound of the whaleboat approaching the ship in the darkness. With mixed emotions he saw Brit and Nathan standing in the stern as it came alongside the well deck, and then he saw Peomeenie standing beside Brit. He ran from the wing of the bridge to greet them.

“Christ, everything’s a mess,” Nathan began. “The Krauts are evacuating. Their planes and their men have probably spread men all along the coast, and when Peo last saw their ship three days ago it was loading oil drums on deck.”

Paul’s head felt as though it were spinning. All their carefully laid plans were for nothing. While they’d been sitting fat, dumb and happy with their great strategies, the goddamn Germans had indeed suckered them again.

“How many Krauts are left?” he demanded.

“Peo says he saw no more than twice twenty—not more than twice his fingers and toes,” Brit said. “There may be more underground. He says they live like foxes. And he said their ship is crowded with men.”

“It sounds like it’s getting ready to make a dash for home now,” Paul said.

“We might still catch them,” Brit said.

“Wait a minute,” Paul said. “Peo, come with me.”

He led Peo to his cabin and showed him a chart of Supportup Fjord. Unhesitatingly Peo pointed to one of several narrow ravines branching out from it, and showed where the airstrip, the hidden hangar and the hunter-killer were. After quickly jotting down these positions, those of the field guns and the rest of the base, Paul gave them to Nathan.

“Radio these positions to GreenPat. Tell him to start bombing. We’ll get under way and wait off the entrance of the fjord for the air strike. If Fatso is already at sea, we’ll never catch him, but if he’s still there, we’ll get him when he comes out.”

Nathan ran to the radio shack, Paul to the bridge. The shouting on the well deck had already brought most of the men from the forecastle.

“Captain,” Boats said, “do you want me to pick up the whaleboat now, or do you want me to take the civilians ashore?”

“Pick it up,” Paul said. “I’ll stop at the wharf on the way out. That will be quicker.”

“You can’t put me ashore,” Brit said. “Peo and I can help.”

“Don’t argue,” Paul said, and called, “all right, let’s get the anchor in. Take the boat aboard.”

“Paul!” Brit said, tugging at his arm. “You should hurry. Putting us ashore will be a waste of time.”

“Do what I say. Wait on the well deck with Peo. When I come alongside the wharf, jump fast. I’m not going to tie up.”

“Where’s Nathan?”

“Now don’t go bothering Nathan! Brit, I don’t have time to argue with you. If you and Peo don’t jump ashore fast as soon as we get alongside that wharf, you’ll be thrown ashore. Now don’t give me any more crap.”

“Are those your famous last words to me?”

“Oh, for God’s sake—”

“You’ll never be back, you’ll go right back to the west coast. Mission accomplished.”

“Brit, I got no time for this. I’ll try to get in touch later. Now get off the bridge and wait on the well deck. Please.”

Brit looked at him, and left the bridge.

“We’re over the anchor,” Boats called.

“Break it out. Secure that boat as fast as you can.”

Paul conned the Arluk down the fjord at her top speed. He approached the wharf at the settlement with a reckless dash Mowrey himself might have admired, paused there for the instant it took Brit and Peomeenie to jump ashore, and headed out of the fjord. Nathan appeared suddenly on the bridge.

“GreenPat says the planes should wait for dawn,” he reported. “That’s just about five hours. They’ll be here then.”

“Good. That will give us a chance to get there. If their ship hasn’t already left, the planes will drive it out.”

Raising his voice, Paul told the men on the well deck that they would be off the mouth of Supportup Fjord in about three and a half hours, and that planes would attack the place at dawn. “If their ship hasn’t already left, we can expect her to make a run for the open sea as soon as they hear the planes coming. I’m going to close with her as soon as I can.”

The men had been geared up for action and were obviously confused by the prospect of more hours of waiting. After loading the guns, they stood hunched against the cold wind, talking and laughing. Cookie passed out mugs of hot coffee and the men started back to the forecastle.

Paul too felt a letdown after a sense of violent urgency. It was a little before seven in the morning. A three-quarter moon was riding high in the sky, so bright that no stars were visible near it. The recent gales had left only a thin scattering of icebergs near the coast. A belt of gleaming back water separated the icy mountains from the main ice floe, which glistened about three miles offshore. Changing course to steam down the middle of this, Paul said, “Nathan, can you get the mouth of Supportup on the radar?”

“I got it. Nothing’s moving, but we couldn’t pick up a little wooden ship like that until we’re damn near on top of her.”

“Just hope that she’s not already on her way to Germany.”

“Skipper, do you really want to close with her? How close?”

“Close as I can get.”

“Machine guns at point-blank range? Can’t we do better than that?”

“How? We can’t aim that five-incher worth a damn. The three-incher can’t hit anything until we’re right on top of it. We got two twenties and five fifties. We outgun her.”

“We’ll take a beating. Two small wooden ships with machine guns at close range could blow each other up.”

“What would you suggest?”

“Track her and call the planes down on her if we can.”

“If she gets out in the ice pack again they’ll never find her and she can outrun us.”

“We could stay just beyond range of her light stuff and give Guns a chance with our three-incher.”

“If we screw around too much she’s liable to get away. I’m going to take her this time, I don’t give a damn what happens—”

“Just give us a chance with the three-incher first. If that doesn’t work, close with her.”

Paul knew he was right, but for some reason that made him angry. “Damn it, I’m going to do this my way,” he said. “After this, you leave the grand strategy to me—”

“O.K., skipper. But don’t forget that I want him as much as you do. I just want to take him on our terms, not his. Don’t forget he’s got torpedo tubes.”

“You think he can hit a trawler with those?”

“I wouldn’t give him a chance unless I had to. With the planes and big guns on our side, we shouldn’t have to get near him.”

“Right from the beginning, we’ve been overcautious. You know that, Nathan? We’ve been fucking chicken. One way or another I’m going to finish this thing today if he’s still in there. I’m not going to let him get away.”

“I’m with you,” Nathan said, and meant it as he turned back to the radar set.

Everything continued to be curiously peaceful as the Arluk cleared the land and turned south through widely scattered ice floes. Even the wind had reduced its moan to a whisper. It was warmer at sea than in the fjord, though the mercury hovered near thirty below zero. The barometer was dropping, Paul saw as he tapped it. Before long another blizzard was bound to hit. Such good weather in December couldn’t possibly last long.

If one of those narrow little ships designed for hunting and killing whales loaded enough fuel to try to cross the Atlantic and took on all the people she could cram below decks, she wouldn’t have much speed left, he figured. Maybe he’s no faster than I am now. And if an overloaded little ship like that hit a full gale out here, he’d have his hands full without worrying about me. He’d ice up, and roll over or be swamped. Maybe he wouldn’t head straight for home. Maybe he’d try to find someplace to hole up in the ice while he waited for his own weather stations to tell him when to make his break. If he has a deck cargo of oil drums, he sure wouldn’t want to get machine-gunned. Maybe he’ll try to hide instead of running or looking for a fight tonight …

Except who the hell could be sure of anything? For the most part, his clever deductions had led him unerringly to the wrong conclusions for months. Who the hell knew whether the damn ship was in its fjord, three days out to sea or in between?

God, let him still be in his base, Paul found himself thinking. Let me have him, I want him. I want his blood. Now what the hell kind of prayer was that?

It was at least an honest prayer. Paul was a little astonished to realize that at the moment, all he wanted to do was fight. The fears that had been making him doubt himself ever since he could remember had disappeared. The idea of spotting the German ship for the planes and letting them attack it was infuriating, and he didn’t really want to try to sink the German with his three- or five-incher while staying safely out of range of his machine guns. No, if he obeyed his instincts he’d simply charge the enemy with all guns firing, bring the five-incher to point-blank range and ram the bastard if he stayed afloat. Reason told him that the German machine guns were sure to kill many of his men in such a battle and that he stood a good chance of dying himself, but after months of this dancing around it really was time to fight. Now. Only the delay was hard to take and the thought that the German might already have gotten away. I want him, Paul kept saying to himself, I want him and this time I’m going to have him. Please, God, don’t let him get away—

Except this was crazy. With all the odds on his side, why get a bunch of men killed?

Paul shook his head to clear it, as though he were drunk. Nathan was right—he should close with the German only as a last resort. This was no time to pull an Errol Flynn.

“Get Guns up here,” he said to the quartermaster.

Almost immediately Guns appeared.

“If I can, I’m going to stay just beyond the range of this guy’s machine guns,” Paul said. “Do you think you can get him with the three-incher?”

“We’d have to be pretty darn close,” Guns said. “I can get him with the three-incher at two thousand yards if you give me time for enough shots.”

“We’ll try it,” Paul said. “If it doesn’t work, I’m going to steam right down the bastard’s throat.”

Guns nodded. “We’ll get him, sir. One way or another. The crew is ready.”

The moonlight was so bright that they could see the glittering humps of the mountains around Supportup Fjord while they were still twenty miles away. The ice pack had pressed closer to the coast there, the radar showed, and there were several large icebergs in the two-mile strip of relatively open sea between the mouth of the fjord and the main floe.

“We’re going to have to go in close,” Paul said to Nathan. “If we don’t stay right on top of the mouth of that fjord, he could get away.”

“If he’s loaded deep, he couldn’t have too much speed.”

“But we don’t know how much and we don’t know if he’ll try to run north, south or east when he gets out.”

“There’s a good-size berg about fifteen-hundred yards just off the mouth of the fjord,” Nathan said, studying the radar. “If we hid behind that we might have some surprise going for us.”

“If they have lookouts on the shore they’d spot us before we got in that close.”

“Do you suppose their field guns could get us out there?” Nathan said.

“If that damn Eskimo was right, they’re further in the fjord. Hell, we got to go in close. Any other way, he could duck us.”

As they neared the mouth of the fjord, the bleak white mountains and the rocky coast looked so barren that it was difficult to imagine that a base of any kind could be nearby. No light, no wisp of smoke, no mark in the snow showed anywhere. Paul brought the ship slowly toward the iceberg which was less than a mile off the entrance to the fjord. It was about three times the size of the Arluk with a slanting flat top like the roof of a big shed. The sea had eaten away its waterline, producing a ledge about ten feet wide which ran around the edge of it like a skirt. Keeping the iceberg between the ship and the shore, Paul stopped and drifted with his bow only about fifty feet away from it.

“Can you see over it from the flying bridge?” he shouted through the voice tube.

“No,” Krater answered.

Paul went to the flying bridge and jockeyed the ship until he could see over the slanting top of the iceberg. All but a few feet of the bow of the Arluk and the mast were hidden from the shore. When he stopped the engine, the men could hear a gentle groundswell sloshing under the snowy skirt of the iceberg and the strange catlike mewing of gulls with black-tipped wings that swooped around them. Paul glanced at his wristwatch. Twenty minutes after ten, about an hour and a half before dawn.

“Here we wait,” he called to his men. “The planes should hit soon after the first streak of dawn, and if our little friend is in there he should come out and play. You guys better get warmed up while you have a chance.”

Standing in the pilothouse to get the ache out of his own feet and hands, Paul tried to imagine what was going on now aboard the German ship and at their base. Since the Germans had no way of knowing that Peomeenie had visited them, they would have no reason to suspect that an attack was this imminent. Probably all but a few men on watch were asleep in underground bunkers or in houses buried in the snow. If their ship had already loaded a deck cargo of oil drums, she was probably ready for sea and waiting for a good weather report for the run across the Atlantic. If she planned to carry a lot of passengers, including most of the German brass whom she had saved from the supply ship, she would probably have to wait for them to come aboard when she got the first warning of enemy planes approaching. Big brass wouldn’t be apt to sleep aboard a crowded little ship until the last moment. But sure as hell she’d try to get out at the first sound of planes.

Then which way would she go? Paul went to his cabin to study the chart. To the south the land fell away in a long shallow bay full of small islands and rocks. To the north the mountains plunged almost vertically into the sea. The German would probably head right for the ice pack at first, but when he saw the Arluk blocking his way, he could run either way, or choose to fight it out on the spot.

“Nathan, does the radar show any leads into the ice pack near here?”

Nathan turned a knob and studied the screen closely before answering. “The stuff is pretty closely packed out there. About ten miles to the south there’s something that might be a good lead.”

“But he doesn’t seem to have radar, so he couldn’t know that.”

“That’s right.”

“Funny that they don’t have radar, isn’t it? I always just sort of assumed that they did.”

“That’s what they get for kicking all the brains out of Germany before they even started their war.”

“What do you think he’ll do when he comes out?”

“I think he’ll try to get close enough to us to use his torpedoes.”

“If I keep my bow to him, he won’t have a ten-percent chance.”

“But it will be just about his only chance to sink us.”

“If he has any speed left I bet he’ll run. Would you want a fire fight if your decks were loaded with oil drums?”

“No, but I’m not suicidal. The Krauts are. That’s the only explanation of everything they’ve done.”

“I don’t know.”

“I do … it’s only a question of how many poor bastards they’ll kill before they get what they really want—a fiery death, the last act of a bad opera. They love it.”

“Well, we’ll soon see.”

Restlessly Paul climbed to the flying bridge. The catlike calls of the seagulls with black-tipped wings which were wheeling all around suddenly infuriated him. The seagulls, after all, were in no danger—they were just interested spectators, and after the battle was over they would feast on the eyes of Germans and Americans with equal relish. He had an impulse to take out his pistol and shoot at the gulls, probably would have except that they were close enough to shore for even a .45 to be heard. The moon was only a little above a low ridge of clouds on the western horizon, clouds that seemed to be growing, and Paul suddenly was afraid that they would spill over the whole sky and ground the planes before any action began. That was ridiculous. Even in Greenland in December bad weather didn’t build up that fast. He went to the pilothouse and tapped the barometer. It was still falling, but dawn should break in about forty minutes. At Narsarssuak Fjord on the other side of the ice cap the big bombers would be already warming up. Their pilots were probably having a last sip of coffee. To them the prospect of bombing a German weather base in Greenland which now had been pinpointed for them would appear to be just a milk run.

As the moon set behind the clouds there were a few minutes of utter darkness during which the whole coast of Greenland disappeared. The stars on the eastern horizon glowed brightly, much larger than they appeared at home. Invisible now, the gulls continued to mew like hungry cats.

The first sign of dawn was the gradual disappearance of the faintest stars. Then there was a murky gray line on the eastern horizon, made jagged by the intervening icebergs. Without orders the men trooped to their guns. They checked the breeches and trained them restlessly around the horizon.

Paul went to the voice tube to the engineroom. “It’s starting to get light,” he said. “We could have action anytime.”

“Standing by,” Chief Banes said.

Paul went to the flying bridge. The snowy coast of Greenland was beginning to emerge from the gloom, pristine white slopes which looked as though they had never been touched by man. Veils of gray cloud now obscured the highest peaks. Through his binoculars Paul studied the entrance to the fjord. The sea was black where the current and tides had prevented it from freezing. The German’s white camouflage wouldn’t help him when he came out.

By now the planes should have taken off, Paul thought. Jesus, I hope they don’t find some way to screw up … “Nathan, is Flags on the radio?” Paul called through a voice tube to the bridge,

“Yes, they’ll tell us if there’s a change of plan.”

At first the sound of the approaching bombers was so faint that Paul was not sure that he heard it. He turned the collar of his parka away from his ears. The men at the guns started to cheer as the distant drone grew to a roar. Suddenly, like plump geese, three fat-bellied bombers appeared in a V-formation above the ice cap. They circled high above the fjord, trying to make sure of their position.

Now the bastards in there know what’s coming, Paul thought. That hunter-killer is trying to get under way. I bet everybody is running, trying to jump aboard … if the son of a bitch didn’t sail three days ago …

This suspicion that the German had already escaped was the worst of it. Paul gripped his binoculars so hard his hands ached as he studied the mouth of the fjord. Overhead the bombers continued to circle lazily. Suddenly the lead plane sloped toward the fjord. It dipped down, leveled off just above the sides of the icy canyon, crossed it and circled away. Paul had seen no bomb drop and had heard nothing, but a plume of heavy black smoke suddenly climbed from the edge of the fjord.

So now the target is marked, Paul thought, and almost immediately heard gunfire as antiaircraft batteries along the ridges of the fjord opened fire at the planes. The bombers circled far above the puffs of smoke. Paul had to force himself to keep a watch on the entrance of the fjord instead of the planes.

He’s pretty damn slow getting under way, Paul thought, and now a conviction that the German ship had already escaped began to grow. Damn, he thought, and at just that moment he saw a tiny white object move just inside the rocky entrance. It was much smaller than he had thought the hunter-killer would be, even at that distance.

“He’s coming,” Paul yelled, and slid down the ladder to the wing of the bridge.

“I’ve got him on the radar,” Nathan said, his deep voice sounding almost matter-of-fact. “Range, sixteen-hundred yards, bearing two six three.”

“Guns, open fire with the three-inch at will,” Paul called, and repeated the bearing and range. The crack of the small cannon answered almost immediately. Paul rang for flank speed. As soon as he was clear of the iceberg he said, “Come right slowly and steady on the mouth of the fjord. Can you see the ship coming out?”

“Aye,” the helmsman said.

The three-inch gun kept firing at about five-second intervals.

“Can you see if he’s hitting anything?” Paul asked Nathan, who was studying the oncoming ship through his binoculars.

“I can’t even see where the shells are landing.”

There was another report. “That one’s way short,” Nathan said.

Paul did not need his binoculars now to see that the hunter-killer was still heading straight toward him. No guns were flickering from her bow. Smoke was pouring from her high stack. Gray drums of fuel oil were lashed all over her deck. The Arluk’s three-inch gun continued to fire and one shell burst just off the target’s left bow.

“How much more do you want to close, skipper?” Nathan said.

“Till we hit him.”

“We’re getting into his range.”

“He’s not shooting yet.”

Paul had hardly spoken when he saw a flicker of fire on the bow of the hunter-killer, and tracers arched toward the Arluk. They fell about a hundred yards ahead, looking like rain on the water.

“Left full rudder,” Paul said, wondering whether he was a coward, fighting with the impulse to keep barreling closer.

“He’s turning too, skipper,” Nathan said.

Paul saw that the target was indeed making a sharp turn to the right and was starting to run parallel to the shore only a few hundred yards off the coast. The little ship was very deep in the water and was throwing a huge stern wake. Paul maneuvered the Arluk to parallel her course.

“Nathan, take bearings on her. Is she outrunning us?”

There was a pause while Nathan peered into the radar. The three-inch gun continued to fire and a shell burst just ahead of the hunter-killer.

“Not by much, skipper,” Nathan said. “Maybe a little.”

“If we don’t hit her pretty soon—”

The next shell from the three-inch gun narrowly missed the stern of the hunter-killer. To Paul’s astonishment she turned abruptly and headed for the center of the shallow cove.

“She’ll run aground in there,” Paul said.

“Maybe he’s got his own charts.”

“Anyway, we’ve got him. He can’t run from us in there.”

The three-inch gun continued to fire, but the stern presented a narrow target. Shells exploded on both sides of it.

“I think he’s trying to beach her,” Nathan said. “That way most of them might get off …”

Close against the icy shore, the white ship was difficult to see. She zig-zagged through some low-lying small islands of rock. Slowing to make a sharp turn to the south, she suddenly stopped.

“She’s aground,” Paul said. “She’s only about two hundred yards from shore.”

He headed the Arluk toward the stationary vessel while he studied her through the binoculars. The Arluk’s three-inch gun continued to crack. Paul was astonished when flames suddenly blossomed on the bow of the hunter-killer.

“Jesus, we’ve got him,” Paul said. “Cease fire.”

“I just got the range!” Guns said.

“He’s aground and afire. Let’s see what happens.”

Nathan and Paul studied the German ship through the binoculars as the Arluk sped closer. The hunter-killer’s bow was tilted up on rocks and she was listed about twenty degrees to port. Smoke and fire climbed from the bow. Her stern was alive with men.

“They’re launching rubber rafts,” Nathan said. “If they get ashore they may be able to make it to one of their weather stations.”

“Like hell,” Paul said. “Guns, open fire.”

The next shot toppled the smokestack. Paul was about to order another ceasefire when a machine gun on the stern of the German opened up. The Arluk was barely within range, but Paul heard bullets falling on the flying bridge and the splintering of wood.

“Give them everything we’ve got!” Paul yelled. “Ahead full. Let’s finish this.”

As all her machine guns opened up, the whole hull of the Arluk shook. And almost immediately the hunter-killer burst into flames.

“Cease fire,” Paul yelled, but he had to repeat the order twice more at the top of his lungs before the guns were silent. The oil drums on the whole length of the hunter-killer’s deck were blossoming into flame. From her stern men were crowding into two large rubber boats. A few had paddles, and they frantically moved away from the burning ship while men were still trying to jump into them. About a dozen men were splashing in the water between the stern of the ship and the rubber boats.

Suddenly the machine gun on the stern of the burning ship again started to fire. Without being told the men on the Arluk opened up with their machine guns. The stern of the hunter-killer exploded. In the instant of silence which followed, a white-clad figure gave one piercing shriek, stumbled and fell on the well deck of the Arluk. Boats and two seamen ran toward it. Boats kneeled by the head.

“It’s Cookie,” he yelled. “He’s hit bad.”

Paul started to run to the well deck, but Nathan said, “Skipper, hold it. Those bastards are going to make it ashore if we don’t act quick.”

Paul stared toward the burning wreck. The two crowded rubber boats had made it halfway to shore. At least a half dozen men were paddling in each.

“Guns,” he said, “take out those boats. The twenties ought to be able to do it.”

The two 20-millimeter guns began their staccato stutter. Tracers arched toward the rubber boats. A few men dropped their paddles and tried to stand before they were hit. The guns kept on firing until there was nothing but smoke on the water …

“Cease fire,” Paul said. He was aware only of the fact that he felt absolutely nothing. Not the exaltation of victory, not pity, not horror. Nathan was studying the bow of the hunter-killer, which was sending up a tower of flame.

“Burn, damn you,” he said softly.

An explosion that made all the others seeem like nothing suddenly made the men on the Arluk look toward Supportup Fjord. The bombers had turned the middle of the rock canyon into an inferno. Great oily funnels of smoke full of angry red flames were boiling from it.

“God, I can’t see how any of them could live through that,” Nathan said.

“Well, we’ll soon see,” Paul said. “Our real job is just beginning. I bet that plenty of them will still be waiting for us in there.”

While Paul conned the ship toward the entrance of the fjord, which was now almost hidden by smoke, Nathan went below to see if he could help Cookie. He found the chef screaming in his bunk while Seth Farmer, who seemed more shaken than he was, kept offering him a glass of apricot brandy.

“I don’t know how bad he’s hurt,” Seth said.

Cookie lay with his knees doubled up and kept alternating shrill screams with fierce curses. Nathan got morphine from the medicine chest and gave him an injection. When his moans became drowsy, he knelt by his bunk and opened his clothes. Cookie had not been hit directly by a bullet. One had hit the oak cap rail of the trawler about six inches from him and had sprayed the whole front of his body with oak splinters, some of them six inches long. As far as Nathan could see, no one of the wounds was necessarily fatal, but there were perhaps a hundred of them. Nathan ran to the bridge.

“Captain, I got to work on Cookie,” he said. “Can you get along without me for an hour?”

“I got to wait for some of that smoke to clear before we go into the fjord anyway. Where did Cookie get it?”

“Wood splinters, all over.”

As Nathan ran back to the forecastle Paul climbed to the flying bridge and studied the burning fjord through his binoculars. The bombers had disappeared but roiling black smoke full of red flames was still climbing from the center of the fjord. They must have dropped incendiaries, Paul thought, but what did they hit to keep such an enormous blaze growing? Diesel oil—only that could make such dirty smoke, and the smell of it filled the air. But why so much of it? Perhaps the Germans had been prepared to supply their submarines as well as a string of weather stations. Were they trying to fight the fire now or were they digging in for a last-ditch stand when a ship or ground troops appeared? It was hard to imagine how anyone could have survived such a conflagration but he was sure some had, and even a half dozen men with machine guns could take a helluva toll. Well, I can call in more planes or go back and bring in some armed Eskies, Paul thought—I’m not going to let them hit any more of us. But first he would have to investigate the place. There wasn’t any way around that, and he found he was looking forward to the job …

When the Arluk neared the mouth of the fjord Paul could hear the sucking of the flames. Smoke enveloped the places where he had reported field guns. The wind veered a lot, making the tallest column of smoke twist like a snake trying to strike first in one direction, then another. It looked as though it could burn for days, and Paul was surprised when it began to die almost as rapidly as it had bloomed. In that blaze and the winds it created in the deep, narrow fjord, even thousands of barrels of oil couldn’t last long.

Now we ought to move in, before they have a chance to get over the shock, Paul thought, and rang up general quarters. The men, many of whom had been standing on the forecastle head and the flying bridge, moved toward their guns with curious nonchalance.

“We’re going in there,” Paul said. “Keep an eye on both banks of the fjord. Shoot anything that moves if it doesn’t have its hands up.”

Hurrying down the ladder from the flying bridge, Paul entered the pilothouse just as Nathan came from the forecastle.

“You can stay with Cookie for a few more minutes if you want,” Paul said.

“I’ve done about all I can for now.” Nathan looked shaken and his hands trembled slightly as he adjusted his binoculars and looked at the mouth of the fjord.

“How is he?” Paul asked.

“Bad. Thank God for morphine.”

Paul ordered full speed ahead.

As they neared the mouth of the fjord Paul kept expecting a German field gun which had survived the planes to open fire, but no sound broke the Arctic silence. Scared away by the noise and smoke, even the gulls gave no hint of motion or life to the white mountains and the long, black smoldering scar on the snowy banks of the fjord which they saw after passing the first headland. The continuing silence seemed eerie, unnatural and dangerous. Paul had a vision of men waiting in an underground bunker, sighting their guns on his ship. The snowy banks of the fjord looked completely untouched right up to the beginning of the burned area. Melted snow made the black ashes glisten in the last red rays of the setting sun. Soon it will be darker in here than the bottom of hell, Paul thought, and told Guns to keep some star shells ready. Some twisted metal girders lay in the center of the strip of ashes, but that was the only sign that men had ever been there. Suddenly the starboard 20-millimeter gun opened fire, its rapid reports echoed and magnified by the steep icy sides of the fjord. After only a few seconds it stopped.

“I thought we saw something move in there,” Guns said.

Paul studied the spot at the edge of the charred wreckage the tracers had been arching toward. A sled dog bounded from a crevice and dashed toward the bank of the fjord, barking at the ship.

Suddenly a signal light blinked from a bank of snow at the edge of the wreckage.

“Hold your fire,” Paul called as the Arluk’s guns swung toward it.

Nathan studied the light through his binoculars. “He’s blinking S.O.S.,” he said.

“They could just be trying to suck us in here,” Paul said. “Tell him—”

His words froze in his mouth as figures suddenly appeared around the edges of the ashes. It was not necessary to use the binoculars to see that they were wounded men, their faces and clothes blackened, their clothes hanging in shreds. Some held up their hands as they approached the edge of the fjord, some were too weak to do that and hobbled along, leaning on other apparitions. One tall man carried a torn white shirt on the end of a stick. He cupped his hands as he shouted in English with a strong Scandinavian accent, “Everyone here surrenders. I am Danish. Can I come aboard to talk?”

Paul stopped his ship in the middle of the fjord and kept all his men at the guns while he sent the whaleboat in with four armed men to get the Dane. When the boat landed at the jagged edge of a concrete wharf that had been built in irregular curves as part of the camouflage, a horde of ragged men pushed toward it and tried to get aboard. Of course the survivors were dying of exposure, Paul realized—the temperature was 40 degrees below zero and there was a sharp wind in the fjord that kept swirling the last of the smoke from the embers of the wreckage. Across the still black water he could hear the sound of coughing. The boat had orders to bring back only the Dane and its crew pushed the ragged men away. They limped back to their holes in the ground as the boat returned to the ship with the tall Dane standing in the stern.

“My name is Carl Peterson,” the Dane said as he stepped to the well deck. Although his parka and face had been blackened by oily smoke, he was clearly a handsome man, and he stood very straight, trying to achieve dignity but looking more like an actor struggling with a very bad part. “I am a Dane brought here by the Germans very much against my will.”

“We’ll get to that later,” Paul said. “Is anybody in there going to fight?”

“No. May we get out of the cold to talk?”

The man was shivering. His parka was sheathed with ice. Paul led the way to his cabin. He was about to tell the quartermaster to ask Cookie to bring up some coffee when he remembered that Cookie had been hit. Peterson slumped wearily on the stool by the chart table.

“How many men are in there?” Paul asked.

“About fifty. Most of the officers left on the ship.”

“How many are wounded?”

“Almost all. They tried to fight the fire. The wind changed suddenly. Many are burned.”

“You’re sure that none are still underground?”

“They all came out to fight the fire. Thank God you got here, captain. A lot of them got wet, they’re freezing to death.”

“I’ll go alongside the wharf. I want you to make an announcement. Tell them that if one shot is fired at my men we’ll machine-gun everyone here before moving out.”

Peterson was so weak that he needed help as he climbed to the flying bridge. After bringing the ship close to the wharf Paul gave him a megaphone and he made his announcement in German which was even more accented than his English. The ragged men who were waiting at the edge of the wharf stared dumbly. When Paul ordered them in German to hold their hands over their heads as the ship came alongside, only a few had the strength to comply.

As soon as the ship touched the wharf, the freezing Germans hurried to climb aboard.

“Guns, keep order down there,” Paul said. “Line those men up and search them for arms before you let them aboard. I don’t give a damn if they’re dying—no one gets aboard here without being searched.”

Guns and Boats pushed the prisoners into a line.

“God, they really are dying,” Nathan said. “What the hell are we going to do with them all?”

“Put the worst ones in the forecastle and the rest in the hold. We’ll take them into Angmagssalik.”

Most of the Arluk’s crew changed quickly from fighting men to rescuers, and without any sense of irony—they were too exhausted and shocked by the sight of so many Germans dying from burns and exposure to be conscious of their own emotions. It was impossible to keep order as prisoners collapsed on the well deck and were carried to all available berths. Boats spread tarpaulins in the hold for the overflow. In the midst of this great groaning, cursing confusion, only Guns remained military. After organizing five seamen to search all the prisoners, he came to the bridge.

“Skipper, I think I ought to take some armed men ashore and make sure that no more of them are hiding out there.”

“Take six and make it fast.”

Moments later Guns led six seamen ashore. They were carrying automatic rifles, hand grenades and knives as they began to circle the charred wreckage of the base. Paul stood on the wing of the bridge watching them. He was conscious mostly of the fact that his feet were very cold, and he stamped them. The well deck was still swarming with the prisoners and the men trying to help them. There was so much confusion that Paul kept trying to insulate himself from it by concentrating on immediate plans … I’ve got to get them to Angmagssalik, he kept repeating to himself. What then? How could so many wounded men be treated there? This was a question without an answer, and Paul just stood watching Guns and his men prowl through the smoking ruins. They were, he saw with astonishment, collecting souvenirs, filling a seabag with German pistols, helmets and caps.

“Captain, we got to do something,” a bewildered voice said.

Paul turned and saw that Seth Farmer had come up behind him. The old fisherman appeared to be in almost as much shock as the prisoners. His face was white and slack. “They’re all dying,” he said. “The whole ship is full of dying men.”

“We’re doing everything we can,” he said. “You better go down and get some rest yourself.”

“But they’re all burned, so terrible burned,” Seth said. “Can’t you help?”

“Jesus, what the hell do you want me to do? Go and lie down before you pass out.”

Seth wandered dazedly toward the well deck. A moment later Paul saw him helping Flags carry an inert body to the forecastle.

Paul went to the bridge to warm up and stood at a port where he could watch Guns and his men circle the wreckage, pausing at every hole. Then he went to his chart and methodically charted a course to Angmagssalik. He felt dizzy and was confused by the fact that he really felt no emotions at a time when everyone else seemed so excited. He just felt half-dead. His hands were so heavy he could barely handle the parallel rules. I’m in shock too, he thought dully. I have to compensate for that. I’m one person who can’t crap out now. Suddenly he felt a surge of irrational anger at the Germans. What right did they have to swarm aboard his ship begging mercy and turning it into chaos? It would not really be difficult for him to order them all thrown ashore or even overboard, to rid the vessel of them, cleanse the ship and release his crew from this awful mess. He knew he should feel guilty for even thinking of this, but he was too tired.

Suddenly he felt sick and went to the head to vomit. After that, still feeling nauseated and weak, he went to the wardroom, where he found Nathan surrounded by more wounded men who sat huddled with blankets over their shoulders. The bunks were full of motionless bodies. Nathan was applying a tourniquet to a man on the table whose thigh was gushing blood.

“Seth just died,” he said.

“What?”

“Heart. Nothing can be done. We got to get these men ashore as soon as we can. You better get everyone aboard and get under way.”

Paul went back to the bridge. Guns and his men were still prowling through the ruins ashore. They were digging at the foot of a charred mound. When Paul gave five short blasts of the Arluk’s whistle and motioned to them from the wing of the bridge they came trotting back toward the ship. Guns carried a bulging seabag on his shoulder, and their bodies were hung with German rifles.

Paul watched them dully as they jumped aboard the ship. Guns went to the galley and a few minutes went by before he came to the bridge. “No one alive is left in there that we can see,” he said. “Plenty of bodies—the bastards didn’t all get away.”

“Good,” Paul said dully.

“Look what I got,” Guns said, and from his pocket took his olive bottle, which he had filled. When he held it out, Paul at first did not notice its contents. Then he took his pistol from his holster and brought the barrel of it down on the big man’s wrist so hard that Guns screamed. The olive bottle dropped to the deck, but did not break. It rolled into a scupper. Squinting his eyes to avoid looking at its grisly contents, Paul picked it up and threw it overboard.

“You can’t do that,” Guns said, holding his wrist against his stomach. “It’s mine—”

“Get below,” Paul said.

“You’re not going to take my head,” Guns said. “Nobody’s going to …”

He ran toward the forecastle. For a moment Paul was too bewildered to understand what was happening. Then he followed him, too tired and disgusted to hurry. When he got to the galley he found Guns standing with three other men staring into a huge pot that was already steaming on the stove.

“Throw that thing overboard,” Paul said.

Instead Guns grabbed the pot and ran toward the door, except it was so hot that he dropped it in the forecastle. Gray water and a cloud of steam spilled out, together with a head, which lay on its right ear. The open eyes, the gaping mouth and the stump of the neck had already been boiled colorless. Guns scooped it up, and holding it under his right arm like a football broke through the encircling men and dashed to the deck. Paul followed in time to see him jump ashore.

“Boats,” Paul called. “Take some men and bring him back.”

Boats, followed by a half dozen seamen, went in hot pursuit. Paul went to the wing of the bridge and stood watching them zig-zag through the charred ruins, like men playing football. His sensibilities were still too dulled for him to feel much. The fact that Guns was running with a head under his arm did not seem a great deal more surprising than any other part of what had overwhelmed him here …

Finally Boats tackled Guns and the other men piled on top of them. Slowly they stood up, leaving the head on the ground. Two men were holding Guns’s arms, and he was shouting, “Goddamn it, let me go, what’s the matter with you bastards—?”

“What do you want us to do with … this?” Boats called to Paul.

For a moment Paul wondered whether he should hold a funeral service for the head. Should he bury it at sea, rolling it off a plank? And how about the rest of the body and all the other corpses in those black ruins? Clouds of scavenger seagulls were already circling around, waiting for the smoke to clear. No doubt he should bury the bodies and read some words from the Bible, but it was more important to care for the wounded and to guard the prisoners. All his men were so exhausted that they hardly had strength even for that. “Leave it there,” Paul said. “Bring Guns back aboard.”

Guns appeared perfectly normal by the time the men let go of his arms. They walked aboard like a group of old friends. Guns came to the bridge.

“You don’t understand, skipper,” he said. “I promised Blake’s mother. I promised I’d make her a lamp.”

“You wrote her a letter?”

“Oh, I knew you’d censor that. But I promised her in my heart. I was going to take it home to her myself.”

Paul sighed. “I’m sorry, but mutilating corpses is … well, it’s against regulations. Lay below. Boats, pipe mooring stations. We’re going to get out of here.”

“Can’t I handle the bowline like always?” Guns asked.

“Yeah, okay, go to your mooring station. Let’s go.”

While Paul was automatically giving orders to get the ship under way he wondered what he should do about Guns. If he logged the incident with the olive bottle and the head and brought charges he’d have to keep Guns a prisoner and eventually the man would be sent to a mental hospital in the States, maybe for a very long time. Everyone would be horrified by him, all the more so, perhaps, because he stood for a kind of ferocity that the war made many people feel but damn few wanted to admit. Somewhere Paul had read that soccer was an ancient game that had started when warriors celebrated a victory by kicking around the head of an enemy chief, and that football was a derivative of that. War had not really changed much—except now it involved so many people that it had to be prettied up. Paul wondered whether Guns really was crazy, so crazy that he shouldn’t be turned loose except in battle. He’d have to watch him, he decided wearily, he’d just have to watch him. He didn’t want to see the poor bastard get locked up in a place that was bound to make him crazier than he already was.…

When they worked their way into clear water Paul set a course for Angmagssalik. It was beginning to snow and he could see almost nothing. Only the dimly lit compass card and the glowing green eye of the radar screen made any sense.

To Paul and everyone else aboard the ship that three-and-a-half hour voyage seemed endless. Shock had the good effect of reducing emotion, but it also had the effect of making time appear to stand still. Paul stood on the bridge, concentrating on the simple task of conning the Arluk through widely scattered bergs as she churned north between the mountains and the ice floe. Before the moon came up there were only scattered stars to prick the darkness and he steered mostly by radar. On the well deck he could see dim shapes moving and realized that Boats was piling bodies under a tarpaulin there to make room in the bunks. When the moon climbed above the icy eastern horizon, he could see gulls wheeling all around the ship and wondered whether “those damned flying cats” could smell blood.

Paul’s eyes felt heavy, and he concentrated mostly on staying awake. He asked for coffee and once more had to remind himself that Cookie could no longer bring it. Why did the thought of Cookie riddled with oak splinters bother him more than the groans of so many dying men?

As Paul changed course to enter Angmagssalik Fjord he tried to concentrate on the details of moving the wounded up to the Danish houses. If he radioed for a doctor could a PBY bring one in? Probably there was too much small ice in the fjord for a seaplane, but couldn’t they parachute someone in? Except why should a doctor risk his life for the Germans? Paul had no answer for that, but God knew they needed a doctor, if only for Cookie. Nathan should get on the radio.

“Captain,” the quartermaster said, “is anyone getting the names of all the prisoners for the log?”

“Forget it.”

“We’re supposed to log everyone who comes aboard.”

“Forget it, I said. We’ll get the names later. Tell Boats to make some kind of stretchers for carrying the men ashore.”

Paul felt a sense of urgency as he approached the wharf at Angmagssalik. He wanted to moor and get the wounded ashore as fast as possible, but his mind wasn’t working right, and he got the ship broadside to the current, backing off just in time to avoid slamming into the wharf. Slowly he circled and came alongside properly. As soon as the ship touched the wharf, a small fur-clad figure jumped aboard and ran to the bridge. It was Brit.

Somehow Paul was very surprised to see her.

“What happened?” she said, out of breath. “I saw the smoke.”

“We wiped out the base,” he said wearily.

“Did you get the ship?”

“Yes.”

She hugged him. “I knew you would.”

He could think of nothing to say.

“Are any of your men hurt? Is Nathan all right?”

“He’s all right. Look, I got about fifty wounded prisoners. Burns and exposure. We got to get them up to the houses. Cookie’s hurt bad.”

Already wounded men wrapped in blankets were gathering on the well deck. Brit stared at them and suddenly the look of pleasure on her face died. “Fifty!” she said. “Good God. I’ll get the Eskimos down here with sleds and try to get ready for them.”

She ran up toward the settlement. Paul went to the wardroom to look for Nathan. He found him helping a boy about eighteen years old to get his burned hands into the sleeves of a dry parka.

“You got to get on the radio,” Paul said. “Have we told anything to GreenPat yet?”

“I haven’t had time.”

“He must be going crazy. Tell him what happened. Maybe he can parachute a doctor and medical supplies in here.”

“All right,” Nathan said, and staggered up the companionway. Soot from the burned clothes he had been handling had streaked his gaunt face so that he looked like a walking corpse himself.

Paul went to the pilothouse. He watched Boats and four seamen make stretchers out of strips of tarpaulin and rifles lashed muzzle to muzzle. “Boats, come up here …”

Boats walked quickly to the bridge. Still alert and brisk, he seemed curiously untouched by the confusion around him. “What can I do for you, sir?”

“How many of the prisoners are well enough to make trouble when they get a little rest?”

“I haven’t checked them all, sir. They all look pretty beat, those I’ve seen.”

“There must be some who aren’t wounded at all. Find out how many. I want them put out on the island with the other prisoners.”

“It’s already pretty crowded out there, sir.”

“There are more prisoners here than there are of us. I don’t want them even to think about taking over.”

“I’ll see to it, sir.”

“Can I talk to you, captain?” Carl Peterson asked. He was standing on the well deck, wrapped in a blanket.

“All right. Come up here.”

Hoisting his blanket above his knees to avoid tripping, Peterson hurried to the bridge. Apparently he had already recovered from much of his shock.

“Captain, can I go ashore?” he asked. “I know some of the people here. I can help.”

“You’re a prisoner. You were working with the Germans.”

“Captain, I had no choice. They just grabbed me in Copenhagen because I’m an ice pilot and marched me aboard their ship.”

“I suppose there will be hearings of some sort to figure all that out. Until then, you’re a prisoner.”

“But meanwhile, can’t I help? We’ve got to find a way to feed all these people in there. I at least can set up a field kitchen.”

There was a pause. “All right, go and help,” Paul said wearily.

Peterson jumped ashore, his blanket fluttering, and hurried into the darkness toward the houses. Paul heard the sound of dogs, and a team with a sled surrounded by a crowd of Eskimos arrived on the end of the wharf. Brit was shouting orders at them. The Eskimos began to help the Arluk crew put the wounded on stretchers and carry them ashore. Paul saw her pause over one German who was moaning and tuck his blanket around him more tightly. She too had changed instantaneously from victor to rescuer, also probably without being aware of it.

Damn it, they ought to get Cookie ashore first, Paul thought, and hurried to the forecastle. Cookie was lying in his bunk, his eyes open but so opaque that Paul thought he was dead. Still drowsy with morphine, Cookie managed a weak smile.

“We’re going to get you ashore,” Paul said.

“No!” Cookie sounded terrified.

“You’ll be more comfortable up there.”

“Let me stay here. Mr. Green will take care of me.”

“I’ll let him make the decision,” Paul said. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Who’s going to cook?”

“We’ll find someone.”

“The men have to eat …”

“We can live on K-rations. You go to sleep.”

Nathan was busy in the radio shack. Paul returned to the bridge and sat watching while the crew and the Eskimos moved the wounded ashore. Boats lowered the whaleboat and set off for the island with eight unwounded prisoners.

Nathan suddenly appeared on the bridge. “I got GreenPat,” he said. “The bastard wanted to know every last detail. He finally said he’d try to parachute in a medic and some supplies.”

“Good.”

“He wants us to stand by until things are under control and then take all the wounded who can make it back to Narsarssuak.”

That was too much for Paul to think about at the moment. “Cookie doesn’t want to be taken ashore,” he said.

“I can take care of him here. I’m saving the last of the morphine for him. He needs a doctor quick.”

“We got to figure out a place for them to parachute a man in and have Eskimos there to get him. Where’s the best flat land?”

“Brit will know. I better get her to arrange it and tell GreenPat.”

“Jesus, you must be dead on your feet.”

Nathan wearily shrugged. “I don’t know, skipper. If winning is like this …”

“I guess it’s better than getting beat.”

Nathan went ashore. When the last of the prisoners had been carried to the houses the Arluk crew returned to the forecastle and sprawled in their bunks. Krater lit off the galley range and began emptying cans of soup into a large pot. Paul came and sat at the big V-shaped table with the others while it warmed. Stevens was gathering up soiled blankets and throwing them in a pile on the well deck. The whole forecastle still smelled of sickness, wounds and scorched flesh. Everyone was too tired to talk as Krater handed out coffee mugs full of lumpy tomato soup and the last of the fresh bread that Cookie had made.

“Cookie, you better get well damn soon,” the quartermaster said, but the old chef did not answer. With a surprisingly delicate, long-fingered hand covering his eyes, he slept in his bunk.

The soup revived Paul a little. He had a compulsion to inspect the ship, to see what damage had been done by the gunfire they had taken, and perhaps to seek reassurance from his men as much as trying to give it. As his mind reached back, trying to reconstruct the events of the past day, he began to realize that the ship would not have been hit at all and Cookie would not have been wounded if he’d had enough sense to keep out of range of the enemy’s machine guns. Any sense of victory remaining to him was now wiped out by guilt. He was surprised and grateful when Flags, who had the watch on the bridge, smiled at him and said, “Well, skipper, you must be feeling pretty good.”

“Better than the Krauts do, I guess.”

Better than Fatso did when he died, he thought, and wondered what kind of man the captain of the hunter-killer had been. Had he been killed aboard, or had he been in one of those rubber boats? The image of the men trying to stand as those rubber boats disintegrated under the 20-millimeter gunfire was still sharp in Paul’s mind. About that, at least, he felt no guilt at all.

The wardroom was the last compartment Paul inspected. The table there was covered by a tangle of soiled blankets. In a starboard bunk a body lay completely covered by a rumpled sheet. That must be Seth, Paul thought, but had no inclination to make sure. Jesus, he was a good man—old enough to be the father of all of us, and never a word of complaint. I guess I should write to his wife …

And Sparks’s wife, and Blake’s mother—I should write them all, he thought. All the women should get letters telling them how brave their brave men were …

Paul put his hand on the wardroom table to steady himself. The tangle of blankets there stank. They should be thrown overboard, but then there would be no blankets. They should be washed and dried in the engineroom. First thing in the morning, as soon as the men got some rest.

Without thinking Paul began to pick up the blankets and fold them neatly, then carried them to the well deck and shoved them under a tarpaulin. Staggering a little, he went to the bridge and tapped the barometer. It was still falling. Soon it would snow and blow like hell. Stepping to the wing of the bridge, he looked at the sky. Clouds had already obscured the moon. They better hurry with their medic, he thought. I ought to tell them, but hell, they have more weather reports than I do.

The thought of a big blow coming made him get a flashlight and check the ship’s mooring lines. They should be doubled up, but everyone was too tired. The manila was still fairly new and should hold.

He walked slowly back to the bridge. Guns, his wrist wrapped in a bandage, was talking to Flags about the girls in New Orleans.

“Skipper, we’re just about out of ammo for the three-incher,” he said, perhaps to find out if he had been forgiven, or to prove that he was ready to forgive.

“I’ll get some as soon as I can,” Paul said. “You did some good shooting, Guns.”

“I shouldn’t have taken so long to get on target, but with a short-barreled gun like that—well, hell, we won. That’s the important thing, isn’t it?”

Paul went into his cabin and shut the door. Suddenly he wanted a drink and wished he hadn’t thrown out all the booze he had found in the drawer under the bunk. There were a few bottles of sweet liqueurs still locked in the lazaret, where they were being kept for a beerbust ashore. Now on this night of victory he should get them out and share them with the crew. The trouble was he was too tired to get out of his bunk and all but the two men on watch were asleep anyway. Victory made a man very tired.

Paul slept for more than ten hours. He was awakened by Nathan.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” Nathan said, “but a hell of a lot has been happening.”

“What?”

“They got a medic in.”

“Has he looked at Cookie?”

“I made sure that Cookie came first. He’s a living pin cushion, but it looks like he’ll make it.”

“Did you get any sleep?”

“A little. Look, we’ve got orders.”

“What the hell are we supposed to do now?”

“We’re to take aboard all the worst wounded who can make it and bring them to Narsarssuak. Also, all the most able-bodied prisoners who might make trouble here.”

“We’ll be loaded like a slave ship.”

“GreenPat knows we can’t take everyone. The number is up to you. He’ll send another ship to get the rest as soon as he can.”

“He’ll probably have us going back and forth all winter. How the hell are we going to handle able-bodied prisoners?”

“Boats is making the hold into a brig. He’ll be done in a few hours.”

“I’ll sail as soon as you’re ready. How are we going to guard prisoners in the hold?”

“I’ve made up some stuff that will act as tear gas. If they act up, we can drop some in.”

“Keep their hands tied anyway. I don’t want to take a cruise to Germany. And don’t take too many. Leave enough men to guard the rest on the island.”

“Boats will take care of that … Brit wants to see you—”

“Why? You’re taking care of her, aren’t you?” He couldn’t keep an edge from his voice.

“I’ll pretend you didn’t say that.”

“You’re trying to get her out of here. Well, don’t ask me to take her without authorization—”

“She’s changed her mind about that. I better let her talk to you. She’s in the forecastle now.”

“Send her up.”

“Paul, I don’t know how things are between you and Brit, but she’s been a hell of a big help. She’s been running everything ashore. Without her—”

“I know, you don’t have to tell me about her. Just send her up.”

When Nathan left, Paul went to the head and washed his face in cold water. He did not have time to shave but combed his hair and put on a less rumpled blue coat. Soon he heard a light knock on his cabin door.

“Come in.”

She was wearing her green skirt and the reindeer sweater. She had recently brushed her short hair but her face looked exhausted, her eyes dark and enormous. She shut the door behind her and kissed him lightly on the cheek.

“I won’t pretend,” she said. “I’ve come to ask a favor, a big one.”

“Nathan says you’ve changed your mind about wanting to get out of here.”

“There’s too much for me to do here now. With Swan gone …”

“What do you want?”

“What are you going to do with Carl Peterson?”

“He’s a prisoner. He can stay with the others.”

“He’s a Dane!”

“He was working with the Germans and still would be if we hadn’t captured him.”

“He had no choice. He has a family in Denmark. Do you know what the Germans would have done if he hadn’t worked with them?”

Paul sighed. “That’s not my business. Somebody else will have to figure that out. To me, he’s got to be just a prisoner.”

“We need him here. Why can’t you just leave him with us?”

“How would I ever explain that?”

“Who would ever ask for an explanation?”

“I should report that I captured him—”

“Why? They could keep him locked up for years until they figure out what I know now. If I thought he was a traitor do you think I’d beg for him?”

“Have you known him before now?”

“Yes. He taught courses about Greenland at the university. He’s a fine man who got dragged into this war like everybody else. Can’t you just forget you ever saw him?”

There was a pause before Paul said, “All right, Brit. Carl Peterson will be my sort of a going-away present to you …”

“Don’t say it like that.”

“I feel it like that!”

“Will you always be bitter about me, your whole life?”

“No. Hell, I don’t like to lose you. I can’t share you. Can’t you understand that?

“We don’t have any choices. Can’t you understand that?”

“I guess … Brit, am I any different to you, or are we all just men who happen to need you?”

“You are the only man I ever knew who I think will somehow always win …”

“Win what?”

“Anything. And winning is important, believe me … you have to lose to learn that.”

“I understand … Jesus, Brit—”

“I’ll remember this cabin,” she said, “and laughing together, so silently, under that sword.”

“I’d give it to you as a souvenir, but I’m afraid it would make all your other friends jealous.” He didn’t smile.

“Jealous men I don’t want. I’d like to have your sword. I’d hang it on the wall to remind me that it’s not always necessary to lose.”

He took the sword in its leather case from its brackets and handed it to her.

“Does this mean that you surrender to me?”

“I did that a long time ago, and you know it.”

“I have something to give you in return. I’ll send Peo down to the ship with it before you sail, but I’ll tell you about it now.”

“I’d like a picture of you.”

“I’ll send that too, but my real gift is a narwhale tusk, the biggest I’ve ever seen. Do you know about narwhale tusks?”

“Not much.”

“The Greenlanders for centuries have sent them to Europe and Asia, where they think they come from a unicorn. Old men grind them and drink the powder as a love medicine.”

“You think I need that?”

She touched his face. “Not for sex, Paul, but maybe for love.”

“I guess you’re right.”

“No, I don’t mean that … Just take the narwhale tusk and hang it over your bed and if anyone asks, say it comes from a unicorn. And if anyone says that’s a mythical beast, just say, ‘How could it be? Here’s its horn.’”

He laughed, and kissed her, and then Guns was knocking loudly at his door and saying, “They’re bringing the wounded aboard, sir, and Mr. Green is going to have funeral services for Mr. Farmer up in the chapel.”

Brit went with Paul to the funeral services. No clergyman was present, but almost all the members of the Arluk’s crew were there and many Eskimos. The old woman played the organ while they sang “Abide With Me.” Mr. Williams read a service from his Bible that Paul somehow did not want to hear, and then Nathan said, “I think the men would like to hear a few words from you, Paul.”

He felt curiously weak as he made his way to the lectern. He looked at Brit’s tired face, at Nathan’s haggard one and at the exhausted faces of the Arluk’s crew and suddenly he was terrified he’d break out into tears and not be able to say anything.

“I don’t know what to say,” he began. “Seth Farmer died while he was helping to carry a wounded German below. He had a bad heart, and a great one. Most of you knew him as well as I did. He never complained …” For about five minutes he praised the old fisherman, but his words didn’t seem to make much sense to his own ears, though they were all true enough. The church was much too hot … “What I guess I’m trying to say is that Seth was part of the Arluk and part of us, whatever we are. I think we’re important, but I don’t know how. We’ve been through a lot together, and now we’re burying one of our own. May God have mercy on his soul and on all of ours.”

He paused and was grateful when the organ began to play “Rock of Ages.” He returned to his pew and stood beside Brit while everyone mumbled the hymn. Afterward he followed her out of the church.

“I suppose Greenland will preserve Seth forever, with all the rest of her dead,” he said of her.

“Nothing really dies here,” she said. “Nothing changes. I told you that.”

“After the war is over, will you stay here?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think ahead. Paul?”

“What?”

“I have to go now. I mean really go. And so do you.”

He nodded.

“It isn’t only bodies that Greenland preserves. Memories too. Nobody ever forgets anything that happens to him here.”

“I believe that.”

She brushed his cheek quickly with her lips before turning and running toward her small ketch.…

When he got back aboard his ship Paul found that Peomeenie had delivered a magnificent narwhale tusk in a sealskin case. Over six feet long, it had been polished to the consistency of a candle, and the intricate spiral weave of the ivory was just as ancient writers had described the unicorn’s horn. It exactly fitted the brackets which had been built for Paul’s sword above his bunk.

The Arluk did not get stuck in the ice on the way back to the west coast, but an almost continuous gale and blizzard slowed her, and the voyage took two weeks. Because Nathan was occupied with the wounded and the other prisoners, Paul stood watch most of the time himself, snatching only brief naps while Flags and Boats took over the watch on the bridge. His exhaustion protected him from feeling too much as the ship crammed full of dazed sick and wounded men rolled and pitched in the endless darkness. Most of the time he had to navigate without a sun, without a horizon and without stars. But he still had radar, and with that he paralleled the coast, keeping a good thirty miles out, located the mouth of the passage which led across the tip of Cape Farewell and headed up the west coast When he finally gained the shelter of Narsarssuak Fjord, the rolling and pitching of the ship mercifully stopped, but the quiet waters of the inner fjord had frozen into smooth ice unlike the Arctic, more like a pond at home. It made a sound like continuously breaking glass as the Arluk ploughed through it and slowed her to a bare four knots. It was snowing, it was always snowing, and the steep white sides of the fjord were invisible. Flags gave Paul almost continuous radar readings, his voice so hoarse that he whispered.

“Get Nathan up here,” Paul said to the quartermaster.

Nathan arrived, so exhausted that he stood supporting himself on the engineroom telegraph. “When are we going to get in?”

“About four hours. Give GreenPat an ETA of six o’clock. Have ambulances meet us and trucks with guards for the prisoners.” There was a pause before Paul added, “I have an idea that old Mowrey will be waiting for us, all ready to take his ship back.”

Nathan smiled. “That’s a private nightmare of yours, skipper. The old man was done when he left here.”

“Maybe,” Paul said, “and maybe I’d half like to see him come back. When the old bastard was sober he at least knew what he was doing.”

“You haven’t done so bad,” Nathan said. “All you need is some rest—about thirty days leave. You’ll be raring to go again.”

As soon as the ship was moored alongside a wharf at the base in Narsarssuak, Paul toppled into his bunk and slept for twelve hours. He might have slept much longer, but he was awakened by Nathan.

“Skipper, Commander GreenPat wants to see us.”

“Have the prisoners all been taken ashore?”

“Yes … the commander is here. He came aboard to see us. I think that’s supposed to be some kind of an honor.”

“Where is he?”

“Up in the forecastle drinking coffee.”

Paul struggled to a sitting position in his bunk. Nathan had shaved and either because he had no clean clothes left or because of pride had put on his Eskimo outfit.

“You go talk to him,” Paul said. “Talk Eskimo to him. Tell him you forgot all your English.”

“He wants to talk to you. He’s been waiting about a half hour.”

“He probably wants to send us right back to Angmagssalik. Tell him we need availability for engine repairs. Banes will think of something.”

“He’s sent a brand new icebreaker up there. She’s already left.”

Paul climbed from his bunk. “I wish to hell I had an Eskie outfit. This uniform looks like I slept in it for about six months.”

“Keep your parka on,” Nathan said. “Come on, I think the commander might have orders for us. Maybe he’ll send us home.”

Commander Sanders, the curiously scholarly personification of GreenPat, was drinking coffee and talking to Boats when Paul entered the forecastle. He stood up and held out his hand.

“Good to see you, captain,” he said with his Maine twang. “You must have had quite a time of it. Well done.”

“I think the Germans still established weather stations all up and down the coast.”

“A few maybe, but without their base, their ship and their planes, they won’t be able to supply them. They won’t last too long.”

Paul’s body felt stiff and he was terrifyingly weak. He sat down and Krater brought him a mug of hot coffee.

“Thanks,” he said. “Commander, did you ever hear what happened to Captain Mowrey?”

“They sent him back to the States and retired him. Apparently there was a lot of trouble before he left the hospital here. Somehow he got hold of some booze, and I understand that he decked the nurse who tried to take it away from him.”

Krater, who was pouring more coffee, laughed, but Paul said, “I’m sorry,” and meant it.

“The veterans’ hospitals will take care of him … Now let’s talk about you two and this ship. How long before you’ll be able to sail?”

“Where to?” Paul said, his voice dull.

“Back to Boston for a refit. You better get her in shape because that can be a rough voyage this time of the year. To be frank we just lost a trawler in Davis Strait. We think she just iced up and rolled over. We’re going to send you on a more southerly route, away from the Labrador coast. You should give the crew a rest, but the weather’s going to get worse, not better. Do you think you could sail in about a week?”

“If we’re going to Boston, the men will take her out tomorrow,” Paul said.

“Make it a week. In Boston they’ll need about a month for the refit, and then they’ll be wanting to send her back here. We’re still mighty short of ships that can work in the ice.”

“Yes,” Paul said, his mind too tired to think that far ahead.

The commander looked around. Krater had withdrawn to the galley and they were alone in the forecastle.

“Captain, you’ll probably be getting orders,” the commander said to Paul. “I’d like to make you permanent skipper of the Arluk, but as soon as a man turns out to be a good skipper of a trawler they move him up to a bigger ship.”

“Right now, all I can think about is getting home,” Paul said. “Will we get leave?”

“Thirty days. I’ll make sure of that.”

“Who’ll take over the Arluk if I leave?”

“Do you have any recommendations?”

“Do you want her, Nathan?” Paul asked.

“Do you think I can handle it?”

“What do you think?”

“If I’m lucky …”

“He can handle it,” Paul said to the commander.

“I’ll recommend him. I don’t make the final decisions, but I raise such hell when they send incompetent skippers up here that they don’t entirely ignore me.”

The commander stood up and shook hands with the two officers. “You both deserve medals of some kind, but I can’t even make Headquarters understand we’re fighting a war in Greenland,” he said.

“Just make sure we get leave,” Paul said. “And if I get orders, how about giving me a ship in the South Pacific? I’m damned tired of ice.”

As the commander was going, Chief Banes came in. “A whole truckload of mail just arrived,” he said. “The men are crazy to have it sorted.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Nathan said.

Paul went to his cabin. He felt nervous, and almost didn’t want more letters from his brother and Sylvia. Sylvia’s letters were always hell on his fantasies of her. He was still exhausted and lay down in his bunk but couldn’t sleep. For a long time he had tried not to worry about Sylvia, just to remember his best times with her. Probably he would now get only some cheerful letters about her beloved house … he should understand her need for a home of her own. It was absurd of him to worry about that business of serving as a hostess at the U.S.O. A lot of very respectable women did it, didn’t they? Brit and the Eskimos were right—jealousy was a crazy disease.…

A half hour later he heard a knock at his door and Nathan’s deep voice saying, “Letters for you, Paul.”

This time there were only three letters from Sylvia and one from his brother. He opened the letter from his brother first because he knew that if there was bad news, Bill would give it to him straight.

Dear Paul:

There’s no way around it—I can’t make this nice. They say we shouldn’t send bad news to you guys overseas, but this is a situation that you have to do something about.

The simple fact is that Sylvia ran your car into the back of a truck around three o’clock in the morning on Commonwealth Avenue in Boston on New Year’s Eve. She was going fast. She was hurt but not killed—she’s in the hospital with broken legs and maybe her back is hurt but the doctor says she’ll eventually get well. Now brace yourself because that’s not the worst. A guy was with her, an air force captain, and he was hurt worse, although they say he’ll get better too. I’m afraid that lawsuits may come from this. Sylvia was driving and the cops say she was drunk. The truck driver was pretty badly shook up, although he’s out of the hospital. Some shyster lawyer got hold of him and the air force guy, and I’ve hired a lawyer for you—the car is in your name. Fundamentally, you have nothing to worry about—they’re not going to hang you for being overseas while all this happened.

I don’t know what’s going to happen to Sylvia and frankly I don’t give a damn. She of course claims she only had a couple of beers and she has all kinds of explanations of why she was driving around Boston at three o’clock in the morning with an air force captain. You can believe her if you want, but I have to tell you that she’s been running wild practically ever since you left. You have to face the fact that she’s a tramp. I didn’t want to spell it all out, but this accident can’t be kept a secret. Among other things, I think you should cut off her allotment. I have a lawyer who may represent you for free, but I hate to think of you sending most of your pay for her to spend on other guys. She keeps a party going practically all the time in that new house her father bought for her, and it’s always full of free loaders.

I know this must be very tough on you but …

There were two pages more, but Paul did not read them. He started opening the letters from Sylvia. The first had been written before the accident and was all about decorating the house. The third was written in a wavering scrawl:

Paul dearest,

I hate to bother you with this but I had a stupid acident. I’m not badly hurt and the doctor says I’ll get completely better. I wouldn’t bother you at all with it, except the thing was in the papers. Bill saw it, and you know he’s always had it in for me. I’m sure he’ll tell you terrible things and I just want to explain that they’re not true at all.

I was driving a guy to a hospitle. It was an emergency. He’s an air force captain I met at the U.S.O. strickly in the line of duty. He’d just come back from flying fifty missions overseas and he got terribly drunk. He and some other guys got in a fight and he fell and hit his head. I was terribly scared and tried to get him to the hospitle as soon as possible. This stupid truck driver jammed on his brakes right in front of me and there wasn’t a thing I could do. The air force guy was carrying a bottle in his pocket and the stuff went all over me, so the cops thought I was drunk, but I’d hardly been drinking at all.

Bill won’t believe me—he’s really being horid about this. That forces me to give you the real reason, although I never wanted to. The truth is that Bill has always been after me and when you sailed off he got to be a real problem. I slaped his face hard and he’s never forgiven me. Now he’s trying to get even by making you hate me. Paul, darling, I know you won’t believe him. What we have together …

Paul couldn’t read any more. He didn’t trust her and he didn’t trust his brother. The only thing he was sure of at that moment was that he wanted to get drunk, drunker than old Mowrey had ever been. Cramming his letters into his pocket, he walked out of his cabin. Nathan, who was trying to bring order to the arrival of more mail sacks, saw him run across the well deck and jump ashore. After one glimpse of his face, Nathan followed him. He caught up with him on the road that led from the wharf to the officers’ club, where Paul was slowing to a fast walk.

“Where are you going?”

“I need a drink.”

“Mind if I come with you?”

“Christ, let me alone!”

There was such a look on Paul’s face that Nathan fell back, but he still followed him to the club at a discreet distance, then stood at the other end of the crowded bar. He saw Paul order a scotch, toss it off and order another. After Paul had downed four drinks as fast as he could get them he sat bent over his glass. Nathan walked over and sat next to him. Paul gave no sign of noticing him. At the other end of the bar a group of men started to sing, “You are my Sunshine, my only Sunshine …”

“Give me another scotch,” Paul suddenly called to the bartender, his voice oddly shrill.

After eyeing him coldly for a moment, the bartender poured him another drink.

“I’ll have one too,” Nathan said, going to his side.

Paul turned and stared at him for a moment, almost as though Nathan were a stranger.

“So something bad happened,” Nathan said. “Whatever it is, believe it or not, it’s really not the end of the world.”

Paul stared at him. He mumbled, “Not the end of the world.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Paul thought about that for a few seconds before putting his hand in his pocket and handing him the crumpled letters. “Letters from home …”

Nathan read the letters. The lines in his mournful face seemed to deepen.

“Ah, shit,” he said, finally. “You don’t deserve this.”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe I do. It’s crazy. I guess she hasn’t done anything I haven’t done, but I still want to kill somebody. I want to take my damn pistol and go home and wipe them both out.”

“You won’t feel that way long.”

“What will I do?”

“You’ll try to understand whatever happened and eventually you will—”

“I already understand this … I never want to see those people again. I want to begin over with somebody else—”

“That would be one solution—”

“What do you think I should do? Go home and try to patch everything up with the little wife?”

“I don’t know if that would be possible. I just know that anger like yours doesn’t do much good …”

“You’re lucky, you can be angry at the Germans and you’ve already helped to kill a few—”

“I was angry at my wife too. I didn’t want her to go back to Poland to get her parents. I thought it was crazy and I told her so. We had a fight, we had lots of fights. Maybe that’s the real reason she went off.”

“But what happened wasn’t your fault.”

“Which doesn’t help much. Guilt or innocence—sometimes in the long run they don’t much count.”

“What does?”

Nathan shrugged. “Survival for one thing, and I guess kindness when possible … you’re too good a man to let this sour you for long …”

Paul felt embarrassed. “I don’t know, for the first time in my life I’ve no idea what to do.”

“For a while, how about nothing? Let the days go by.”

“I don’t know what I’ll say when I see her. I don’t know what I should write.”

“Write nothing, say nothing. Just let the days go by.”

“I don’t want to go home. Do you think I could get transferred to a ship that’s going to stay here?”

“Probably GreenPat would arrange that for you, but this isn’t a time to make decisions …”

“Yeah, I’m tired of making decisions, I’ve never been more tired in my goddamn life.”

They had more drinks. Then Nathan called the motor pool and was able to get a jeep to take them back to the ship. Paul staggered up the steps to his cabin, grabbing at the rails the way Mowrey used to do. Nathan helped him into his bunk and took off his shoes.

“The truth is,” Paul said with startling clarity, “the truth is, I loved her for no damn good reason I could understand. And now I don’t love her, not anymore, even though she’s probably no worse than I am. That isn’t reasonable, is it? There’s nothing about it that makes sense.”

“Who always makes sense?”

“I never want to see her again. I don’t want to hurt her, I just never want to see her again.”

“Just let the days go by,” Nathan said. “Do nothing as long as you can. It’s what you need.”

The next day Paul felt calmer, in spite of his hangover, but he still hated the thought of going back to Boston to see his wife and brother. He seriously considered asking GreenPat to transfer him to a ship that was going anywhere else in the world, but Nathan talked him out of it.

“Damn it, I’m not ready yet to take the Arluk on a long voyage alone,” he said. “Anyway, GreenPat will think you’re ice-happy if you tell him you don’t want to go home. He’d probably be afraid to give you another command. You’re liable to end up as exec under some other crazy bastard like Mowrey …”

So Paul stayed aboard the Arluk and helped to get her ready for the long voyage home. The winter weather on the North Atlantic was even worse than usual that year, but by this time Paul had enormous confidence in the old trawler, her men and in himself as a sailor. He spent hours on the flying bridge as the ship drove before a full gale, and there were moments when he felt a kind of serenity not like anything he’d known before. At such times he felt himself freed from anger at Sylvia, his brother and even himself. He realized that he didn’t really know what had happened, what Sylvia and Bill had done or not done. Probably he never would know for sure and he wasn’t at all certain he wanted to find out. He had no desire to ask a lot of questions and play detective. Sylvia was Sylvia—he had rarely been able to be sure she was telling the truth, and maybe that was why he could no longer love her. Maybe lying was the worst part of infidelity. Brit at least had never gone in for that. Maybe his love for Sylvia had always been a little crazy, as everyone in his family had kept telling him. Maybe the Arctic seas, Greenland, Brit and Nathan had helped him become sane, to grow up, and he would finally escape Sylvia, but there was no reason to do it with a lot of fireworks. Ashore or at sea, dramatic—melodramatic—action was usually a mistake, and when things were worst it was most important to stay almost casual, as though nothing was happening at all. There was no reason to attack Sylvia for being whatever she was. He would visit her in the hospital, if that’s where she still was, try not to increase her pain and leave as soon as possible. If he had to see his brother, he would say little, listen for as short a time as possible and get out. Soon he would be given another assignment, a much bigger ship, perhaps, and that was good to think about. The war would go on, God knew how many years, and when it was over, if he was still alive, he could make up his mind whether to go back to Sylvia. As Nathan had said, sometimes it’s wise not to make decisions … he’d let events make them for him. For now, anyway.

Unfortunately these moments of calm were often swept away by gusts of rage. Why did all this have to be happening to him? Why couldn’t he come home, a conquering hero, like he’d often imagined, and be met by his faithful admiring wife with sighs of love? Certainly that sort of thing must be happening often to men no more deserving than he. At least half the men in the forecastle were waiting for it to happen to them, and not all of them would be disappointed.

Well … if I’d picked a saner wife and had been saner myself I could expect better rewards, he lectured himself, but in some ways I’m a damn lucky man … For one thing I’m alive and unhurt. Hansen, Sparks, Seth, Blake, Cookie, the living pincushion—if he thought about them it was hard to feel sorry for himself.…

As they neared Boston a heavy blizzard enclosed them in the now familiar curtains of snow, but with the help of the radar Paul found his way into the harbor without difficulty. Just before dark he nosed the Arluk alongside a wharf in the same shipyard where they had first boarded her less than a year ago. It seemed a lifetime. There was no one ashore to catch their heaving lines, but Guns jumped from the forecastle head, and the ship was quickly moored.

“Finished with engines,” Paul said, and Nathan rang up the signal.

“Liberty party requests permission to go ashore!” Boats called from the well deck.

“Permission granted,” Paul said, and the men, who had been wearing their dress blues for hours, scrambled over the rail.

“I’ve given Mr. Williams the duty aboard tonight,” Nathan said. “I’ll be around tomorrow. There’s no reason why you can’t take off.”

“You got any plans?” Paul asked.

“I’m going to have a drink at the Ritz bar.”

“I’ll join you before I make my telephone calls.”

They both put on rumpled khaki uniforms because they had no clean blue ones, and they felt out of place at the Ritz bar with beautiful women and sleek-looking men laughing all around them. They said very little as they downed two drinks, and then Paul, with a rising sense of dread, walked to a telephone booth. He decided to call his parents first to see where Sylvia was. His mother answered.

“Paul! Where are you?”

“Home.”

“I’m so glad! I’ve been so worried about you. I’m so sorry everything happened the way it did. You’ve heard about it, haven’t you? Bill is just furious at Sylvia. He told me before he left that he hopes none of us ever have to see her again.”

“Where did he go?”

“Didn’t you get our letters? They sent him to England, and now I’m so worried about him. He volunteered to go even though he could have stayed as an instructor here.”

Well, Paul thought—at least I won’t have to see him … “Is Sylvia still in the hospital?”

“Yes … she’s really in very bad shape, I hear. Bill says she’s mental. She’s got more than broken bones. I’m so sorry. It’s such a terrible thing for you.”

“I’m all right,” Paul said, got the name of the hospital, promised to visit his parents as soon as possible, quickly hung up and walked slowly back to the bar.

“One more drink,” he said to Nathan. “I’ve got to visit a hospital.”

“Want to come back here afterward? We could have a late dinner.”

“That would be good,” Paul said. “I shouldn’t be long.”

He took a taxi to the Massachusetts General Hospital. A receptionist gave him the number of Sylvia’s room. He walked through endless corridors, all of which seemed to him to be full of the smells and sounds of sickness and death. As he approached the open door of Sylvia’s room he heard her laughing exactly as she used to do at parties. She was sitting in bed with one leg propped up in a plaster cast, and she was talking to two white-coated young interns who were drinking from paper cups. Vases of flowers filled every level surface in the room.

Aware that his sudden arrival might come as a shock to her, Paul hesitated by the door.

“You’re just saying that!” Sylvia said. “You’re just trying to cheer up a poor cripple.”

“No, I mean it,” the taller intern said.

Sylvia’s glossy dark blonde hair had been brushed over the shoulders of her pink bed jacket. She was wearing, as usual, a little too much makeup, but in her face there was that familiar vitality, the same old excitement, and her eyes sparkled as she laughed with the interns. Paul walked slowly toward her. From the doorway, he said, “Hello, Sylvia.”

She jerked her head to face him, and went so pale that her lipstick and rouge seemed to brighten.

“Paul! My God! You’re back!”

She held out her arms and the interns hastily brushed by Paul on their way out. Leaning over the bed, he kissed her on the forehead and gave her a quick hug before stepping back.

“What kind of a greeting is that? Oh Paul! Are you mad at me?”

“No.”

“I wish I wasn’t like this. I wish I could ask you to jump right into this bed with me.”

He smiled.

“Oh, Paul, sit here on the edge of the bed and hold my hand. I have so much to tell you about. I want to explain the whole thing, so you don’t have any reason to be mad at me at all …”

She talked very fast, often contradicting herself and her letter, making him almost embarrassed for her as she strained to explain why she was driving around the city at three o’clock on the morning after New Year’s Eve with an air force captain and why she had been charged with drunken driving, but she managed to give a certain plausibility to her protestations of innocence, except for the fact that she now had the air force captain a terrible man who had practically kidnapped her.

“It all must have been very hard on you,” he said.

“It wouldn’t really have been more than a stupid accident if it hadn’t been for Bill. I haven’t wanted to tell you this about your own brother but …”

According to her, Bill had been pursuing her for years and had almost raped her only a week after Paul had gone to Greenland. Paul was sure that she exaggerated this, but also suspected there was some substance to it. He was very glad that Bill was three thousand miles away.

“I’m sorry about all this too,” he said, “but there’s not much we can do about it now, is there?”

“No, but I just want to be sure you believe me. I haven’t done one single thing wrong.”

“I’m not judging you, Sylvia. I’m not in very good shape for judging anybody … but I can’t stay long. I have to go—”

“Where? Why? Chris said you’d get a thirty-day leave when you came home.”

He thought of confessing his sins and asking her honestly to confess hers, but the thought appalled him, and he was sure that after the whole messy scene was over he would still want to get away from her. There was no point in putting her or himself through all that.

“I have to go,” he repeated. “Sylvia, you and I need time to figure things out. Let’s just do as best we can until after the war is over. Then we’ll see where we stand.”

“You are mad at me then, aren’t you? You don’t believe me!”

“I think we both need time to see where we are and what we are.”

She looked scared. “You’re not going to cut off my allotment, are you? Bill said you would.”

“I won’t do anything like that. Get better and don’t worry. We both have to sort things out …”

He kissed her on the lips this time and quickly turned to go. She broke into tears, and, damn it, he was strongly tempted to go back. He was also pretty sure that that would turn out to be the worst decision in his life, and by now he was something of an expert in the mistake line. He went out of the room so fast that he jostled a cart full of trays in the hall, spilled one, and was shouted at by an angry nurse. “Why don’t you look where you’re going?”

Some way to talk to a hero …

By the time he got back to the Ritz bar, his calm had deserted him, and he realized that he was almost in shock. His hand trembled as he reached for a drink.

“You’re not as terrible a man as you think,” Nathan said with his crooked smile.

“I don’t know. She’s sick and I just walked out on her. She was crying. Maybe she really was telling the truth.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“No. But maybe that shouldn’t matter.”

“Maybe.”

“But in the long run it would. Damn it, I want to get out of this town. I don’t want to see her again and I don’t want to see my parents. They’ll just keep telling me how terrible she is.”

“Why don’t you go up to the district office tomorrow and see what orders they’re cooking up for you? I met a commander here at the bar a few minutes ago, and he said they’re sending practically everybody to some kind of school in Florida between assignments.”

“You mean now they’re going to send us to school?”

Nathan laughed. “That figures, doesn’t it?”

The next day Paul found that he was indeed slated to go to Advanced Officers’ Training School in St. Augustine, Florida, for six weeks. After that he would be given command of one of many small ships which were being built for service in the southwest Pacific. The thought of palm-fringed islands pleased him. Until then he had not realized how much he dreaded going back to the Arctic. The personnel officer told him that there was no reason why he could not go to Florida right away and take his leave there before reporting to the school. A month of lying on the beaches in a place where no one would expect anything of him seemed to Paul to be just what he needed. No matter how much sleep he got, he still felt exhausted.…

When Paul was detached from the Arluk Nathan was given orders making him commanding officer of the trawler. Paul was packing his clothes when Nathan came to his cabin to show him the mimeographed papers.

“Aren’t you going to get any leave?” Paul asked.

“Later maybe. I want to be here to make sure that the refitting goes right, and I’ve got to train practically a whole new crew.”

“I bet you turn out to be worse than Mowrey,” Paul said with a straight face.

“I can’t really believe I’m skipper,” Nathan said. “When we first came aboard here, who in the world could have imagined that?”

“In war everything changes fast, including us.”

“You mean the Coast Guard has made men out of us?” He smiled.

Paul closed his footlocker and strapped it to Brit’s big narwhale tusk in its sealskin case. “Maybe you’ll see Brit again,” he said.

“I doubt if we get over to the east coast again, but maybe.”

“Give her my best.”

“I will. Do you want me to have some of the men carry your gear out to the street?”

“I’d appreciate it. You better read your orders to the men as soon as I’ve gone. They should know who their skipper is.”

The petty officers who appeared to take Paul’s footlocker were new hands. All the men Paul knew were on liberty or had been transferred. There was no one to say good-by to, but before leaving he walked through the wardroom and up to the forecastle, which was strangely deserted. Nathan followed him. They stood by the gangway for a few moments, oddly embarrassed about saying good-by.

“Take care of yourself,” Paul said, taking Nathan’s hand.

“Let’s get together after the war.”

Paul clapped him hard on the shoulder, turned and walked ashore.

A few moments later he turned to take a last look at the Arluk. Nathan had hurried to the signal halyards and as Paul watched, the third repeater fluttered toward the top of the mast to signify that the commanding officer was not aboard. Standing by the foot of the mast, Nathan made the halyard fast, turned and raised his hand in a salute that ended in a wave. Paul waved back, and then, acting on impulse, gave the ship a formal salute before turning and hurrying toward the street, another ship and another war.