The Sword and the Net

4 ATLANTIC: First Phase

They did not, in fact, tell him until he was in Lisbon, and already—by a curious and amazingly fortuitous-seeming set of circumstances—on the way to becoming a crew-member of the fifteen-thousand-ton Vulcania, which flew the red ensign of Britain and was New York bound and had only touched at Lisbon, it seemed, for twenty-four hours of minor repairs.

It had all been very curious, extremely exciting—and further proof of the incredible, minute precision with which the hidden Machine did its work; a precision so delicate that even he himself had not sensed the first link in the chain as being anything but an uninspired and extremely annoying trick of chance. It was not, indeed, until his course was crossed by the third of the planned events that he realized the chain for what it was and became at ease in his troubled mind.

The first thing was the interview, just as they sighted Lisbon, with fat old Captain Svensen of the Lars Bjolnar. Svensen had told him of orders from his owners, received by radio, to the effect that his crew must be cut down. He had even shown the message, to prove that his forthcoming dismissal of Otto was none of his fault. He was very kindly, and appeared genuinely distressed.

Then, just as Otto, ashore and shipless, was desperately worrying as to what he should do next in view of this unexpected intrusion of Fate into the plans of the Reich in so far as they concerned Otto Falken, had come the chance meeting in the tavern with the grizzled Norwegian bos’un of the Lars Bjolnar. And then the hailing of the bos’un by the little English quartermaster; and the round of drinks—and then, as the Englishman, upon hearing that Nils Jorgensen was without a ship, became suddenly interested, the realization that the Machine had been at work the whole time!

The Englishman left soon, and before anything was settled—but Otto, in his new-found knowledge, did not worry. He just waited. He was learning fast, and knew that it was worse than useless to search for the Machine: when it was ready, and when it wanted him, it would stretch out a long steel tentacle and find him.

It did, within an hour of his leaving the tavern. It found him in the street as he was making for the unsavoury sailors’ dormitory where he had a bed. Out from a low, sagging little doorway over which, with that haphazard interchangeability of B and V which distinguishes the Portuguese language as it is written, appeared the sign ‘Bom Bino,’ a man staggered across Otto’s path. He was a large man, fat and tall and heavy and very drunk. Otto sidestepped to avoid him; then nearly fell over the bulk as it collapsed at his feet, a great belch coming from its throat and a cascade of papers from its coat pocket.

Otto might have moved on—he was not kindly disposed towards sottishness. But he could not move, for the fallen sot had a strong arm wound about his ankles. So Otto stooped to disengage the arm—and saw, lying atop of the scattered papers, a cheap little pencil of the propelling kind whose metal top had been replaced by a crudely fitted piece of wood. . . .

He did not disengage the arm and go on his way. Instead, he became very busy in helping the fallen, picking up his belongings, setting him up on unsteady feet and restoring a semblance of order to his clothes.

The man, an arm about Otto’s shoulders, sang cheerfully all the while. He was even bigger than Otto had thought, and he stank vilely of Bino which was from Bom. From his round, greasy blue-jowled face to his scarred and shapeless yellow shoes, he was as native to the peculiar town of Lisbon as his shapeless, bile-green suit. He looked as if he might be (as indeed he partially was) the fairly prosperous owner of a large and cheap and dirty restaurant.

It was in a small and windowless and fly-blown office behind this restaurant, now closed and shuttered for the night, that he eventually faced Otto across a desk and abandoned all pretence of drunkenness and became cold-eyed and distant and impersonally authoritative. He told Otto, clearly and concisely, several things—and the first of them was that the immediate future of Nils Jorgensen lay in the United States, to which a country he would go as part of the ship’s company of the Vulcania. He did not allow any pause, even the slightest, in which Otto might properly digest this tremendous surprise, but went on with further instructions. He told Otto what to do when the Vulcania docked, and how to ensure that the right person should find him easily. And, very particularly, he told Otto several things which he must not do after reaching America—for the Americans, he explained, were a strange, childish and altogether irrational people.

The interview took the better part of an hour, and they both talked in German, because Otto had neither Spanish nor Portuguese, and could not make headway with the other’s English. It gave Otto a strange sensation, this quick, low-voiced talk in his mother tongue: it made him vividly alive to the deadly reality of his work and yet, in these odd surroundings and talking to this most unlikely person, tinted everything with a dreamlike quality highly disconcerting. So disconcerting, in fact, that he was guilty of a lapse which, when he came to recall it later, made him flush with shame and wonder miserably whether it would be recorded as a mark against him. After the orders had been given and Otto had twice repeated them faultlessly, he asked a question which was not germane to the field which had been covered. He asked of what specific nature his work in America would be—and was abashed by the stony stare which his words evoked and by the three curt words in which he was told that orders would be given him when necessary. . . .

So here he was—a carpenter’s mate aboard the British ship Vulcania, and already forty-three hours out from Lisbon. And he was very busy. There was a great amount of work for the ship’s carpenter and his help; work caused by the unusual nature of the Vulcania’s cargo. He had not known the nature of this cargo before going aboard, partly by reason of the haste in which arrangements were made, and partly, no doubt, by reason of his inability to read the Portuguese newspapers. He had known, of course, that she was a British ship—but what he had not known was that she was carrying to America an oversize shipload of women and children; four hundred and fifty-three of them, to be exact.

When he found out, as of course he had to within two minutes of setting his foot aboard, his first reaction was one of distaste. He examined himself about this and found what seemed to be an answer: surrounded by an ordinary ship’s company of Englishmen he would have felt happy and proud—a lone and daring soldier in an enemy encampment. But this way, with the vast preponderance of the surrounding foe being women and children, he felt uneasy and, in some vague, unspecified way, ill-used. Although it would not have occurred to him to put it this way, he felt, perhaps, as Tristan might have felt at being compelled by the sudden and unexpected presence of Guinevere to desist from planning to overthrow Lancelot.

He consoled himself by the thought that the state of things in Britain must be even more precarious than he had imagined—and went on with his work. He did not see much of the crew, save for the ship’s carpenter himself and two other assistants. One of these was a Scotsman, big and dour and unhappy; the other a brisk, cheerful and talkative Cockney. Otto had as little to do with them as he might and, indeed, only spoke at all in order to oil his English. He found it difficult to understand the Scot and, at first, well-nigh impossible to understand the Cockney, who insisted upon keeping up a running fire of talk whenever he and Otto were together. He was a cheerful, malicious little person called Bates, and most of the talk he poured upon Otto was derisive chaff based upon the obvious fact that Nils Jorgensen was a ‘foreigner.’

At first this did not worry Otto at all, especially as it was rarely, save when Bates’ tone grew unusually acid or Otto happened to meet the bright, twinkling, cruel little eyes, that he knew what the man was talking about. But by the fourth day of what he had gathered was to be an eight day voyage, he was understanding much better—and he did not like what he was hearing.

“’Oo ever ’eard of a nyme like that!” Bates paused in his work. “Nils!” he said. “W’y, it’s ’eathen, that’s wot it is! Ain’t it, Mac?”

The Scotsman went on hammering.

“W’erever joo get ’old of a moniker like that?” Bates spoke now directly to Otto. “Tell you wot I think—I don’t think as ’ow it’s a nyme at all! Want t’know wot I think—I think as ’ow you ain’t reely a Scandanoovian! I think yer a bloody fiver, that’s wot I think!”

Nils went on with the job at hand—an intricate piece of dovetailing which necessitated him lying upon his stomach. ‘Scandanoovian’ had meant nothing to, him, and ‘fiver’ less.

But Bates was warming to his work. “W’y don’t you wash them ears, cockie?” He stirred Nils in the ribs with his toe. “Can’t you ’ear wot I’m assayin’ to yer? I said as ’ow I thought you wasn’t a bloody Scandanoovian at all! And w’y did I say that? Because I think as ’ow yer a bloody German, that’s wot I think! I think yer a German masqueroodin’ as a Swede! I think yer in the fifth bloody column!”

“Och, leave the boy be!” grunted the Scot.

Possibly, had his victim remained impervious, the Cockney might have paid heed. But, on repetition, Otto had grasped ‘Scandanoovian.’ And the words ‘German’ and ‘fifth column’ were plain enough. He was badly startled. He set down the chisel he was using and sat upright and stared at Bates. He hoped that his face was not betraying him by pallor. Half his mind knew that this was a clumsy, malicious joke—but the other half told him that such jokes can be deadly. He said nothing, wondering what to do.

The Cockney, encouraged by this reaction, rose to histrionic heights. His beady little eyes were cruel and twinkling. He began to gesticulate. He said:

“Didn’t fool me for a minute, you didn’t! I knew yer the minute yer set foot aboard; I reckernized yer by the shipe of yer ’ead. ‘Oh-oh!’ I says to meself, ‘A German, eh? Boche, eh? A bleedin’ fiver!’”

Otto decided what Nils would do.

“Don’ be a dom fooil!” he said, grinning and using his broadest accent.

The Scotsman looked up, studying the pair with lacklustre interest. “Gin I waur you, London, I’d be leavin’ yon laddie bide.” He spoke quietly, as if it were small matter to him whether his words were heard or not.

They certainly had no effect upon Bates, now playing to a gallery of three deck-hands who had stopped to listen appreciatively.

“So yer don’t like bein’ rumbled, eh?” He came a step nearer and stood directly over the half-prostrate Otto. “Don’t worry, cockie, they proberly won’t shoot yer—they’ll jest shove yer in a ’ternment camp f’r about six mumffs—till we’ve settled ’Itler’s ’ash! . . .”

Otto did not look up again—but neither did he continue his work. He was still desperately wondering what to do; striving to make no mistakes with Nils Jorgensen’s reactions.

“An’ by the bye——” Bates was lashing himself to yet greater efforts—“’Ow was the Fury when you last ’ad haudience with ’im? I mean, before ’e sent you orf on this ’ere job? . . .”

The three deck-hands drew closer, all smiling broadly. The Scotsman, more intently now, watched Nils Jorgensen.

Bates worked swiftly to his climax—an imitation which he had rendered with unvarying success in many fo’c’sles and more bars. “I c’n jest picture the touchin’ scene when ’e gives you yer orders. . . .” He had whipped out a little black pocket comb and, while he was speaking, had combed down over his bony forehead a lank streak of dark, greasy hair. “Somethin’ like this, it must of bin.” He now held the comb in his left hand with only an inch or so of it visible, and he suddenly pressed this inch to his upper lip, where it showed beneath his nose like a smudge of moustache. As, simultaneously, he thrust out his right hand in the Nazi salute, the resemblance to cartoons and even photographs of Adolf Hitler was undeniably strong. And the harsh, whining shout in which he began to render double-talk German completed a parody of very considerable effect.

“Doss picklehausen!” he bawled. “Ee puddingfelt ei picknoser! . . . Voo puddpuller ee kintergarten wass grummiter keifet! . . .”

The deck-hands clutched each other in an ecstasy of mirth—and the Scot set down his hammer.

Each muscle in Otto Falken’s body was like a coiled spring: Nils Jorgensen was fast fading into the machine-made limbo from which he had sprung. . . .

But Bates—even if he sensed danger—was too much enamoured of his own performance to stop.

“Dee droonkentramps ee kiesterflogger! . . .” he roared—and broke off with a strange sound which was half scream, half gurgle.

For the lèse majesté was too much for Otto Falken. Incredibly, he came up from the deck and his lying position in one smooth, catlike movement so fast that the eyes of the watchers could barely follow it. And his right hand took Bates by his scrawny throat while the left took iron grip upon the belt around the man’s middle. . . .

“Hey!” said the Scot, and scrambled to his feet.

“Ugg!” said Bates—or something like that. He was now above Otto’s head, held parallel with the deck at the full stretch of Otto’s arms—and very near was a yawning companionway which led down steeply to the second-class saloon. . . .

“Hey, Swede!” shouted the Scot—and began to move. But he was too late. Otto, still with his burden kicking and struggling above his head, took four steps—and flung the burden from him, a weirdly waving mass of arms and legs, down the companionway. . . .

There was trouble. There was bound to be, although the wiry Bates escaped with nothing more than a great fright, complete loss of wind and a badly bruised back.

But his story had lost nothing in the telling—and Otto was confined, awaiting appearance before the Captain, to the cramped amidships quarters below ‘C’ deck which he shared with the Scot and two stewards. He would, on a normal cruise, have been in the brig—but on the Vulcania now there was no such thing: like every other inch of available space, it was housing units of the cargo.

Otto sat on the edge of a lower bunk. His elbows were on his knees and his chin was cupped in his hands. He stared unseeingly at his feet and, his heart no higher than his ankles, reviled himself for a headstrong and utterly incompetent fool who was so little fitted for his work that he must betray himself, forsooth, because he could not tolerate the apings of a moronic enemy; apings which were merely malicious chaff. . . .

He seemed to have been endless hours in confinement—but actually only half the middle watch had passed since they put him there. He wondered, hopelessly, when the Captain would see him—and what would happen after that. It seemed inevitable to him, now, that he should be recognized for what he was. . . . He thought of prison-camps, and courts-martial, and firing parties—and the utter unworthiness of Otto Falken. . . .

He wondered why they kept him waiting so long—and thought it must be to break him down. Well, they wouldn’t break him down. They could do what they liked to him, he wouldn’t slip again: for what it was worth he would maintain to the end steadfast adherence to the character and self of Nils.

He jumped up and from its corner pulled his duffel bag and undid it and dragged out the battered strong-box. He unlocked this and found the oilskin-covered package of photographs and papers: it could do no harm to have with him the ‘proofs’ of Nils’ identity which the Machine had provided, from birth certificate to the yellowed old snapshots.

He locked the box again and put it back in the duffel bag and slipped the oilskin packet inside his shirt. He began to pace the little cabin: he would not let this waiting break him down, he would think of other things; things which Nils might think of—anything and everything except the fact that he was Otto Falken. . . .

It was weary, uphill work—but he made some sort of showing at last, by asking himself Nils-like questions, then giving the answers. Why, for instance, if England were sending women and children away because things were so bad, did they not properly escort the ships which carried these women and children? And what was a boat bound from Southampton to New York doing in Lisbon, which the Portuguese so foolishly called Lisboa? And why should the voyage from Lisbon to New York be supposed to take eight days upon a ship of this class, when six should be more than enough? And who and what was the English Quartermaster who had got him aboard? . . .

Stop! That was a dangerous question—it couldn’t matter to Nils; it would not even occur to Nils! Better just answer the questions asked already. For instance, the Vulcania had had an escort for the first day and a half of her voyage; two destroyers which, after that time, had left her and returned to their Channel duties. The Vulcania was in Lisbon because of radioed orders concerning submarines which had sent her temporarily out of her course. The Vulcania must follow an unusual course which would take her much longer than a direct one would. And the English Quartermaster—whether or no a servant of the Machine—obviously could not be approached for help. . . .

There they were again—Otto Falken’s thoughts! It was no use—he couldn’t keep them out. He ceased pacing and sat down again upon the edge of the bunk and once more dropped his head into his hands: he was alone; he had failed; he was utterly miserable.

Then, in the darkest moment, came the Idea!

Otto raised his head and let fall the hands which had supported it: the corners of his mouth began slowly to curl upwards, and little radiating creases showed at the corners of the steel-blue eyes.

He sat motionless for a few moments; then, very slowly and with the smile now broad upon his face, fetched the oilskin packet from inside his shirt.

He took out the photographs and sorted them carefully and at last found what he wanted. It was one of the newest-looking snapshots: it had mountains in the immediate background, and showed an untidy heap of black, smoking ruins which could be recognized as the remains of a sprawling, one-storeyed house.

This, with another which showed the original of the ruins against the same background and with a man and woman standing in the doorway, he put carefully into his wallet.

He swung his legs up on to the bunk and lay down, his hands clasped behind his head and the smile still lurking in his eyes.

Captain Reynolds of the Vulcania, having seen the door close behind his Second Officer and a carpenter’s mate named Nils Jorgensen, rang for his steward and sent him for Mr. Brody.

Mr. Brody, the best First Officer Reynolds had ever had, was with him quickly. Mr. Brody accepted a drink and a chair and wondered what was coming.

“That Swede,” said Reynolds. “Carpenter’s mate. Namee of Jorgensen. Big, tall, blond boy.”

“Oh, yes,” said Brody. “Some fight or something, wasn’t there? Briggs mentioned it.”

The Captain chuckled, crossing his hands over a capacious belly. “Threw a feller down a companion. Cockney feller—Bates. Not hurt much; badly scared.”

Brody knew when to interpolate. “Yes?” he said.

“Want you to keep an eye on Jorgensen. See the men don’t rag him too much. Pass the word to Briggs.”

“Yes?” said Brody.

The Captain took two sips at his drink and set his glass down. “Feller Bates was baiting the boy. Accused him of being in the fifth column.” He chuckled again richly. “Jorgensen couldn’t take it—threw him down companion.”

“Yes?” said Brody.

“Point,” said Captain Reynolds. “Boy hates Nazis! So much he can’t be chaffed. Careful or he’ll kill someone. Wonderful specimen.”

“Very sad!” The Captain took another sip from his drink and shook his head gravely. “Boy’s got good reason to hate the Boche. Parents lived in Norway. Narvik region. Boche blew ’em to Hell. Only few months ago. Bad time to bait the lad. Fix it, will you?”

“Oh, I see, sir!” Brody stood up. “Yes, sir. Can do.”