An Honorable German by Charles L. McCain Page B

for a running half hitch, then Max whipped the rope around both himself and Keppler, then
     around the stanchion again. He looped the end around his wrists, the weight of their bodies drawing it tight. The water broke
     over them. Max’s breath blew from his body. His mouth opened and filled with brine. Water invaded his ears, ran up his nose.
     The ocean sucked at them. A shoe went but the line held taut, biting deeply into Max’s flesh. He thrashed, shaking his head
     violently, the water clawing at them. And then it was gone, over the side, but he and Keppler remained.
    Max retched, coughing and spitting, then drew a lungful of air. He unfastened the line and dragged Keppler, unconscious, to
     the foot of the bridge housing. Popping the toggles on the heavy metal door, he strained against the weight until the door
     swung open. He pulled Keppler inside and started puking again, acid burning in his throat. That was how the senior bridge
     messenger found him.
    “Herr Oberleutnant!”
    “Fetch the doctor, now!”
    Max lay in his soggy uniform on the hard steel deck, fighting to regain his breath. With the adrenaline gone, he began to
     tremble. Death taunted—over the side, a last scream, mouth filling with water, arms thrashing, the ship now a gray shadow,
     now gone. Alone in the tossing waves. He shivered at the thought.
    “Oberleutnant,” said the doctor, crouching over him.
    “See to Keppler, please, Doktor.”
    Summoned by the doctor, orderlies appeared, bundled Keppler onto a stretcher, and carried him away to the infirmary. Max wanted
     to tell the doctor to carry on, that he was fine and had his watch to finish, but he didn’t feel that brave. His wrists, scored
     by the bite of the rope, bled into little red puddles on the deck. A knot on his head ached—the wave had pounded his skull
     against the stanchion.
    Max leaned against the doctor—like a damned old woman, he thought—as they made their way to the ship’s hospital, tottering
     like drunks to the motion of the ship.
Spee
had a twenty-bed infirmary complete with two operating theaters as well as dental and X-ray units. As good as the Charité
     Hospital in Berlin, they said. With over a thousand men, thousands of kilometers from land, she had to be so equipped. Several
     sailors were lying in the starched white beds when Max entered, a normal complement during storms, which always brought broken
     bones and sprains and gashes.
    Max lay down and the doctor put a needle in his arm. A warm feeling spread through his body as the morphine took effect. He
     fought it for a moment, tried to concentrate, to tell the doctor that it wasn’t necessary. But it felt wonderful. He let go
     and allowed the drug to embrace him.
    He woke some hours later, coming slowly out of his stupor. It took him a moment to realize where he was and what had happened.
     The pain reminded him. The morphine had worn off and his wrists burned. Thick gauze bandages kept him from surveying the damage.
    “Guten Abend, Herr Oberleutnant,” said the orderly, coming forward.
    Max propped himself up. “What time is it?”
    “Just coming on twenty-four hundred hours, Herr Oberleutnant.”
    “My God, I slept that long?”
    “It’s the morphine, sir. It does that to everyone.”
    Max grimaced as he moved to sit up. “Keppler?”
    “Broke both legs and three ribs, Herr Oberleutnant. We gave him twice the morphine dose you received, so he’ll be out for
     a while. But he’s doing fine—thanks to you, sir.”
    Max shrugged.
    Dieter entered the infirmary, both arms raised in the air like a prophet. “Already your bravery is legend among the lower
     orders, who have begun to worship you as a god.” Max grinned. Dieter punched him lightly on the shoulder. “You are well, Max?”
    “Well enough for someone who just woke up from an opium dream.”
    “Was it good?”
    “So good I can’t remember it.”
    “Ha! Like many of my finest nights,” Dieter said. “Stitches?” he