there were no weeds in the river near the loading
place. The nearest were a few hundred meters downriver,
near the Norwegian camp.
A picture popped into his mind, of a faceless man
42
swimming ashore in the night, downstream, where the
weeds grew, to see the Norwegians. Had someone recog-
nized Franck and gone to see him, perhaps to arrange this
morning's disaster? He squatted over the damp uniform,
looking for the name tag inside the waistband—and grew
even more puzzled.
LINDEMANN, G.A. it said. Gregor. And Gregor, if he
remembered right, had once known Karl Franck well.
Had they met last night? And then a new thought entered
his mind. Had they been in contact while Gregor was
stationed here in Norway? Indeed, just what had Gregor
been doing in this country? He had run a salting station,
he said, but would say little more. Kurt began to feel his
cousin was deeper than he had suspected, and that some-
thing unusual was in the wind.
But why wouldn't Gregor share it with his own cousin?
Once more he was on the outside.
43
IV
"You look like a regular snipe, Ranke," said Erich Hippke, Quartermaster with the watch after Kurt's, as
Kurt climbed out of the fireroom. "You're wearing
enough grease."
Kurt chuckled. "Watch your language, sailor. Nobody
calls me engineer and lives. ..."
A boatswain's pipe, shrill, cut across their conversation.
"Now holiday routine for all personnel not otherwise
directed," Hans's voice boomed over the public-address system.
"Ha!" said Hippke. 'The rack for me."
"Why? You've been aboard, loafing, the past three
days."
"Carried too much firewood." Hippke leaned on the lifelines, looking aft at a Damage Control party. "What's Czyzewski up to?"
"Bringing the bad screw aboard—"
"Kurt!"
He looked up, at Hans on the level above. "What?"
"Meeting in the wardroom, after dinner. Mr. Linde-
mann wants you there."
"All right. Erich, let's wash up. I'm hungry."
"I'll pass. Smelt, ugh!"
"You'll love it someday."
All leading petty officers were at the meeting when it
convened. Von Lappus expressed its purpose. "I want to know how we get out of here, now we've got our firewood." Once he had uttered those cryptic words, the
beefy man slid down in his chair, folded his hands across
his chest, and appeared to fall asleep. Kurt wondered, for
the thousandth time, why this particular man was in
command. He never seemed to do anything.
Haber expanded the explanation. "We're now eight feet
lower in the water and no longer able to turn the ship.
And we can't back out on one screw. Suggestions?"
Time passed silently. No one asked why they had origi-
nally gotten in that position—the ship could not have
44
backed upstream, either. No one, though, had thought of
the problem until von Lappus had had men sound the
river around the ship. Hurry had its price—in this case,
time lost and labor expended.
Jager had to be backed downstream until she reached
a place where she might turn. But how? Finally, after a
long silence, Hans nervously offered an idea. "Sirs, I read somewhere that, on sailing ships, when there was no wind,
they sometimes moved a vessel by 'kedging' her."
"And what might that be?" Haber asked. He looked
hungry—for knowledge.
"Well, a boat was put over to carry the anchor to the
end of its chain and drop it. Then the ship was winched up
to short stay."
"I don't see . . ." Haber broke off in mid-sentence. He did see.
But Hans explained anyway, for the others. "We could
do it backward, alternating anchors, walking ourselves
down."
"Damned slow," someone muttered.
"How much chain do we have?" Haber asked.
"Five shot on the port anchor, six on the starboard,"
Hans replied.
"What's that in meters?" someone asked.
Haber penciled figures on the tabletop. "Roughly—and
this is real rough—a hundred forty-five on the port, a
hundred seventy-five on the starboard."
"We'll be a long time getting out, then,"
place. The nearest were a few hundred meters downriver,
near the Norwegian camp.
A picture popped into his mind, of a faceless man
42
swimming ashore in the night, downstream, where the
weeds grew, to see the Norwegians. Had someone recog-
nized Franck and gone to see him, perhaps to arrange this
morning's disaster? He squatted over the damp uniform,
looking for the name tag inside the waistband—and grew
even more puzzled.
LINDEMANN, G.A. it said. Gregor. And Gregor, if he
remembered right, had once known Karl Franck well.
Had they met last night? And then a new thought entered
his mind. Had they been in contact while Gregor was
stationed here in Norway? Indeed, just what had Gregor
been doing in this country? He had run a salting station,
he said, but would say little more. Kurt began to feel his
cousin was deeper than he had suspected, and that some-
thing unusual was in the wind.
But why wouldn't Gregor share it with his own cousin?
Once more he was on the outside.
43
IV
"You look like a regular snipe, Ranke," said Erich Hippke, Quartermaster with the watch after Kurt's, as
Kurt climbed out of the fireroom. "You're wearing
enough grease."
Kurt chuckled. "Watch your language, sailor. Nobody
calls me engineer and lives. ..."
A boatswain's pipe, shrill, cut across their conversation.
"Now holiday routine for all personnel not otherwise
directed," Hans's voice boomed over the public-address system.
"Ha!" said Hippke. 'The rack for me."
"Why? You've been aboard, loafing, the past three
days."
"Carried too much firewood." Hippke leaned on the lifelines, looking aft at a Damage Control party. "What's Czyzewski up to?"
"Bringing the bad screw aboard—"
"Kurt!"
He looked up, at Hans on the level above. "What?"
"Meeting in the wardroom, after dinner. Mr. Linde-
mann wants you there."
"All right. Erich, let's wash up. I'm hungry."
"I'll pass. Smelt, ugh!"
"You'll love it someday."
All leading petty officers were at the meeting when it
convened. Von Lappus expressed its purpose. "I want to know how we get out of here, now we've got our firewood." Once he had uttered those cryptic words, the
beefy man slid down in his chair, folded his hands across
his chest, and appeared to fall asleep. Kurt wondered, for
the thousandth time, why this particular man was in
command. He never seemed to do anything.
Haber expanded the explanation. "We're now eight feet
lower in the water and no longer able to turn the ship.
And we can't back out on one screw. Suggestions?"
Time passed silently. No one asked why they had origi-
nally gotten in that position—the ship could not have
44
backed upstream, either. No one, though, had thought of
the problem until von Lappus had had men sound the
river around the ship. Hurry had its price—in this case,
time lost and labor expended.
Jager had to be backed downstream until she reached
a place where she might turn. But how? Finally, after a
long silence, Hans nervously offered an idea. "Sirs, I read somewhere that, on sailing ships, when there was no wind,
they sometimes moved a vessel by 'kedging' her."
"And what might that be?" Haber asked. He looked
hungry—for knowledge.
"Well, a boat was put over to carry the anchor to the
end of its chain and drop it. Then the ship was winched up
to short stay."
"I don't see . . ." Haber broke off in mid-sentence. He did see.
But Hans explained anyway, for the others. "We could
do it backward, alternating anchors, walking ourselves
down."
"Damned slow," someone muttered.
"How much chain do we have?" Haber asked.
"Five shot on the port anchor, six on the starboard,"
Hans replied.
"What's that in meters?" someone asked.
Haber penciled figures on the tabletop. "Roughly—and
this is real rough—a hundred forty-five on the port, a
hundred seventy-five on the starboard."
"We'll be a long time getting out, then,"
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