Winter Sniper: A World War II Novel

Chapter 5

U-351 churned through the sea at top speed day after day and night after night. The diesel engines thrummed and strained to propel the U-boat at its top speed of seventeen knots. This was not a normal cruise, where the submarine slipped silently through the water like some great steel shark, preying on Allied merchant ships. They submerged only when there was some danger of being seen by an enemy vessel or airplane. The U-boat traveled faster on the surface. Even a born landlubber like Zumwald could tell that they were in a hurry to get someplace. But where? He shuffled through a deck of cards, then dealt himself an imaginary hand, spreading the cards face-up across this blanket. The edges of the cards were worn soft as felt.

“We’re going to Africa on a secret mission,” Bueller assured him from the bunk across the aisle. He was busy turning the pages of another American Western, The Rangeland Avenger by Max Brand. Zumwald studied the cover, which showed a cowboy in a white hat brandishing a lever action rifle. Someone in a black hat was visible behind him. Good guys and bad guys. If only the world was that simple. He listened to the water rushing over U-351’s metal skin and thought that they were about as far from the Old West as it was possible to get.

“I heard St. Nazaire this morning,” said Zumwald. St. Nazaire was the seaport in occupied France where the Kriegsmarine kept its U-boat pens. “Just another rumor.”

“You must know something,” Bueller said.

Zumwald hesitated. He had been working the radio almost non-stop since U-351 had begun this crazy race across the Atlantic. Message after message pouring in from headquarters. Something was going on. The captain went around with a grim face all day. He had overheard something about a rendezvous with one of their destroyers. Rumors were one thing, but Zumwald knew better than to give voice to what he had seen and heard as part of his duties. All he said was, “Go back to your book.”

A drop of water fell from the bulkhead and ran down the face of the Jack of Spades, as if he were crying. Tears of boredom? Zumwald didn’t take it as a good omen. His whole blanket was damp from dripping condensation because the constant thrumming of the big diesel engines shook the moisture loose from the bulkhead. Africa or France would be fine with him, so long as he got to set foot on dry land again. That was one reason he liked Westerns so much — cowboys lived in a world of prairie and heat and dust. No cold ocean for them. Zumwald had begun to fear that his last sight in this world would be the black depths of the Atlantic opening to swallow him. He tried not to think about it too much — it was a good way to go crazy on a submarine.

“How about a game of cards?” he asked.

Bueller didn’t look up from his cowboy novel. “Not a chance in hell,” he drawled in English, attempting to mimic a cowboy but mangling it in his thick Dresden accent. Bueller could read English well enough, but his pronunciation left something to be desired. Zumwald shook his head, amused, then repeated the phrase in a more convincing American twang.

“Pretty good,” Bueller said.

“My father owned a small movie theater in Stuttgart,” Zumwald explained. “I used to watch a lot of American movies, when they were still allowed.”

Aside from some of the officers, Zumwald and Bueller were the only crew members who spoke English. They also shared an affinity for American Westerns, which technically were verboten. So was speaking English. On land he would have hidden the novels away. But U-351 was a world unto itself.

He had just settled down one more on his damp blankets when the klaxon sounded calling all hands to their stations.

“Scheiss,” cried Bueller, stuffing the paperback under his mattress where it wouldn’t be seen. “I was just getting to the good part.”

Half-dressed, they both rolled out of their bunks and raced to their stations. Bueller’s place was at the forward torpedo tube. Zumwald ran for his radio alcove, heart pounding. At least Bueller could shoot at something, Zumwald thought; all he could do was listen.

The bridge was alive with activity. Men sat or stood intently at the controls and gauges while the officers barked orders relayed by the captain, who stood with his eye pressed to the periscope. Seawater ran down from the imperfectly fitted gasket that allowed the periscope to be raised or lowered. The water chilled the air, smelling strongly of salt and fish. The other radio operator was already in place, so Zumwald stood for a moment, uncertain what to do.

“Zumwald!” the kapitanleutnant shouted. “Go topside and help our passenger come aboard.”

If he’d had time, Zumwald might have wondered why U-351 was stopping somewhere in the north Atlantic to take on a passenger. He had never heard of such a thing. But someone handed him a slicker and the next thing he knew he was scrambling up the ladder inside the conning tower. The hatch was open to the night sky and Zumwald could see stars overhead. He popped out, feeling the strange sensation of wind against his face. When was the last time he had smelled fresh air? But this wind had a wintry edge, blowing across empty miles of ocean. Inside the slicker, Zumwald shivered. Just his luck to be sent topside on a night like this.

He strained to see around him in the darkness. Two figures stood on the deck, ready with lines in their hands. Hecht manned the machine gun on the conning tower, staring out to sea. What were they all looking at?

And then he saw it. A dark shape towered above them, perhaps two hundred meters away. Even in the starlight he could make out the ship’s massive guns. Zumwald’s breath stopped and his heart hammered in his chest. Battleship. One volley from those guns and U-351 would go straight to the bottom.

“It’s one of ours,” Hecht said under his breath, as if to reassure himself. “Kriegsmarine.”

A hand swatted Zumwald on the back so hard it stung. The first mate had come out of the hatch. “You! Get down there and help those men. Hecht, keep your fucking finger off the trigger. That’s one of our boats.”

Zumwald half-climbed, half-fell down the ladder to the deck. He felt it heave and bob under him in the rough seas, so different from being in the belly of the submarine. He joined the two others. “When the boat comes alongside, we’ll throw them our two lines,” the man said. “You be ready to help.”

“What boat?”

“Can’t you see? It’s coming now.”

Zumwald’s eyes strained into the darkness. There. He could just see the foam breaking against the bow of a small boat running toward the submarine. The boat slipped down into the trough between two waves and was gone, swallowed by the sea, then reappeared seconds later, even closer to U-351.

Then the boat was alongside. The two men threw their lines and hands stretched out to catch them. They pulled the lines tight but the small boat still bounced wildly against the side of the submarine, like a bobbing cork. A figure stood up. Zumwald could see at once that if the man lost his balance for a moment he would be mashed between the boat and the submarine, or else fall into the dark waves. The man got a foothold on the bow of the boat and leapt.

Zumwald was ready to catch him but the man brushed past, landing easily on the tossing deck. “Here!” someone shouted and Zumwald had just enough time to look up before a sea bag came hurtling at him from the boat. The force of it knocked him down and he sprawled on the wet deck.

“Bring it,” said the new arrival, who was already starting toward the conning tower. He had a long bundle strapped to his back. For a moment, Zumwald had the odd thought that it must be a pair of snow skis. What sense did that make? He looked again and decided it must be a weapon of some sort.

Their passenger delivered, the boat crew cast off and returned toward the battleship. The sailors coiled their lines. Hecht was busy putting the cover back on the machine gun. Zumwald struggled along under the weight of the sea bag, thinking that he would much rather be sitting in front of the radio at the moment.

“Hurry it up, Zumwald!” The kapitanleutnant waved at him in annoyance. “We’re sitting ducks out here.”

Up on the conning tower, Zumwald gave a shout of warning, then dropped the sea bag to the bridge below. The first mate followed him down the ladder, pausing long enough to pull the hatch shut and seal it. The captain was already giving orders to dive.

Zumwald missed the last two rungs and landed in a heap in the middle of the bridge. Annoyed, the first mate practically kicked Zumwald out of the way as he descended right behind him.

“Take us down ten meters,” the captain ordered. “Then turn the boat around and get us out of here. We will chart a new course directly.”

Zumwald picked himself up, discovering that he had landed in a puddle of seawater and the seat of his trousers was now wet. As the crew scrambled to follow the captain’s orders, they kept making furtive glances at the new arrival to U-351. In dire situations, U-boats had on occasion been met on the open ocean to resupply or for emergency repairs to be made. It was highly unusual for a submarine to take on a passenger at sea.

Wrapped in a slicker, the man who had come aboard stood silently as orders and activity burst around him like shells. He was lean and much taller than the submariners, with the appearance of someone who was used to keeping quiet and observing. The only part of him that looked restless were his pale eyes, which moved constantly around the bridge, taking in everything that was happening. His right hand clenched the strap that held the rifle across his back. The weapon was wrapped in oilcloth, but there was no mistaking the shape of what the cloth protected. Zumwald couldn’t see what uniform the man wore — if any — and any badge of rank was hidden under the slicker.

Zumwald stripped off his own slicker and stowed it with the others. He was no expert at navigation, but was surprised when he heard the captain put them on a heading that would apparently take them back exactly the way they had come. It seemed impossible that they had made a mad dash across the north Atlantic just to pick up this man, and were now returning to the U-boat’s prowling grounds just off the United States coast. He started to leave the bridge but the first mate’s sharp voice froze him in place.

“Zumwald! Always skulking, aren’t you? Make yourself useful and take our passenger with you,” the first mate said. “Find him a bunk in the seamen’s quarters and get him settled.”

“Yes sir.”

Well, thought Zumwald, here was a clue at least. The man wasn’t an officer if he was being bunked with the rank and file. Then again, one had to take what space there was on U-351. He jerked his chin at the newcomer. “Come on,” he said.

“Zumwald, what are you doing?” the kapitanleutnant demanded. “Take that sea bag with you!”

Muttering curses under his breath, Zumwald reached down and grabbed up the bag, nearly staggering under the weight. No wonder the damn thing had knocked him down on the deck. He led the way through the U-boat’s single passageway. Playing babysitter now to the new arrival and hauling his baggage was almost too much. It was bad enough that he’d been sent on deck on a winter’s night — one slip and the sea would have swallowed him up. He would like to see them find someone else on U-351 to decipher radio messages. Or figure out what the Americans were jabbering about. He thought with bitter amusement that maybe they would have Bueller give it a try. He could pick out words like “six gun” and “saddle up” or maybe “tumbleweed.” All highly useful words to the war effort. The rest would be a jumble to his ears.

Zumwald slung the sea bag over one shoulder and made a point of banging it against everything he could. The effort wrenched his shoulder, but he didn’t care. Zumwald held his tongue, determined not to be friendly. But the man behind him didn’t say a word, not so much as asking a question. Zumwald glanced back to make sure the man was still following him. Most people were curious the first time they came aboard a submarine. Others were overcome by phobias they might not have known they had, but if the rush of water against the steel hull and the thought of the ocean’s crushing depths beyond made the newcomer uncomfortable, he didn’t show it.

“What have you got in this thing?” Zumwald finally demanded, struggling under the weight of the sea bag. “Bricks?”

“Bullets.”

“Ah.” Zumwald moved more carefully after that, trying not to bang the sea bag around so much. When they reached the sleeping quarters, he eased it down on the lone empty bunk. Well-thumbed magazine and books covered the stained mattress.

“You can have this one,” Zumwald said, starting to push the books aside. “It used to belong to one of the engineer’s mates.”

“What happened to him?” the newcomer asked.

“Shark got him.”

Hecht had somehow beaten them back and he laughed at Zumwald’s explanation. The young submariner had shucked off his wet clothes and was lounging on his bunk. “No, no, it wasn’t a shark at all. He was the one who disappeared in that whorehouse in St. Nazaire. He went in and he never came back out. Those French girls, you know.”

The newcomer raised his eyebrows. “A third possibility might be that he drowned in bullshit,” he said. “But if it’s an empty bunk, I’ll take it.”

He took off his slicker, revealing a Wehrmacht uniform. There were sergeant’s marks on his collar and the uniform was brand new. However, one look at the decorations on the man’s pristine uniform revealed that he was no fresh recruit. It was hard to miss the Iron Cross. Zumwald recognized badges for the campaigns in Poland and Russia. Along with these, there was a ribbon he did not know.

“What’s that one for?” he asked.

“The sniper school at Einbeck.”

“That would explain the rifle,” Zumwald said. “Just a bit of advice, but a rifle isn’t much use on a submarine. There aren’t any windows to shoot out of.”

He and Hecht watched with some interest as the newcomer sat on the bunk and unwrapped the rifle. The oilcloth fell away to reveal what, to Zumwald’s eyes, looked like a battered weapon. The wooden stock was nicked and scarred, and the bluing on the barrel was patterned with scratches. The rifle might have seen hard use, but it was obviously well maintained. The battered wood gleamed and the metal was well-oiled. There was nothing elegant about the rifle; in fact, it looked as brutal and workaday as a shovel. But what caught Zumwald’s attention was the telescopic sight affixed to the top of the barrel, just above the bolt action.

“That’s not a Mauser,” said Bueller, returning from his post at the torpedo tubes.

“He’s an expert on guns from reading American Westerns,” Zumwald explained.

The sniper looked up at Bueller. “He’s right. It’s a Mosin-Nagant. It’s a standard-issue Russian rifle, but it shoots better in the cold and it takes a lot of abuse. This is the work horse of rifles.”

“Looks more like a mule to me,” said Hecht, coming up and grabbing the rifle in both hands to get a better look at it.

The knife appeared so quickly that nobody saw where it came from. Later, Zumwald and Bueller would decide that it must have been in the sniper’s boot. The sniper kept one hand on the rifle and with the other he slid the blade up one leg of Hecht’s boxer shorts. Hecht sucked in his breath and his eyes got big.

“Don’t touch my rifle unless you want to lose something important,” the sniper said, his voice cold as the shiny blade in his hand.

Hecht let go so fast the rifle might have been burning him. The knife flashed fast as a fish and disappeared.

Hecht retreated to his own bunk and sat down. “I wasn’t going to take it,” Hecht started to protest. “You don’t —

“Shut up, Hecht,” Zumwald said quietly. He knew better than to argue with a man whom U-351 had picked up after a rendezvous with a battleship in the north Atlantic. A sergeant who was a veteran of the Winter War and who wore a sniper’s insignia and the Iron Cross. If he had gone ahead and used the knife on Hecht, nothing would have come of it.

Hecht drew a sheet up to his chin and sulked. The sniper rummaged in the sea bag until he found an oily rag, then began wiping down the rifle. When he finished, he pulled off his damp uniform. A raw scar ran the length of the sniper’s side. Then the newcomer rolled himself in a blanket and went to sleep with the rifle beneath him. Zumwald was impressed that the sniper could fall asleep so quickly, but then, a man learned to do that on the battlefield. The fact that he slept with his rifle was more unusual. Even a little crazy. But he wasn't about to say anything to the sniper about it. Zumwald thought about what had happened to Hecht and decided he liked his nuts just the way they were.

Eva’s car was an ancient Cadillac that she kept in a garage behind her house. She would have preferred something newer, but she didn’t have the money for that. Besides, she had decided that the huge and gleaming Cadillac, with its sweeping curves and V-12 engine, was just the sort of vehicle an exiled German film star might drive on the streets of Washington, the perfect prop for her role. One had to be a bit eccentric to drive a car like that.

A chauffeur would have been nice as well, but Eva made do with an elderly black gentleman, Mr. Dorsey, whom she hired on special occasions. Most of the time she just drove herself. She had tried to teach Petra once but that had nearly ended in disaster when the girl drove the car into some trash cans, sending them banging down the street. Only Eva’s quick left hand had shot out in time to take the wheel and keep them from hitting worse. After that experience, Eva had not let Petra drive anything but a carpet sweeper.

This morning, she turned onto Pennsylvania Avenue and drove slowly past the White House. It had snowed the night before, just a dusting, but it was enough to transform the city. The brown, dead grass and bare trees were covered with a fresh white layer that reflected the morning sun. Even the dingy government buildings all had a more promising look about them. Slush splashed under the tires of the Cadillac. With a pang of annoyance, she realized would have to get old Mr. Dorsey to wash the car later. There was more money spent.

Looking at the stately presidential mansion, she tried to imagine Franklin Delano Roosevelt inside, bound to his wheelchair, discussing the war with his staff. So different from the man she had once seen commanding German troops lined like the Roman legions of old on the massive paved square at Nuremberg.

Gasoline was hard to come by due to the wartime rationing, but Eva preferred the Cadillac to walking with her purchases in a basket like a common shop girl. This morning there were a few things she needed that she couldn’t ask Petra to buy. No sense making the girl suspicious. The last radio message from Berlin had ordered her to obtain supplies necessary for the operation. There hadn’t been a list, and the “operation” itself was described in vague terms, but she was going to do her best to guess what might be needed.

She glanced in the rear view mirror. Just the usual traffic — or was it? Eva sometimes suspected that she was being followed. Well, that couldn’t be helped. It was just a reminder that she was playing a very dangerous game. The thought of a prison cell made her shiver with more than the morning cold. The Americans had even executed several spies, putting them to death in the gas chamber. Eva had read the grisly newspaper accounts in horror and afterward had not been able to eat for days. That might have been enough to make her take the radio from her attic and dump it in the Potomac, but then she thought of Kurt and all that he had believed in. He had died for Germany. So could she. She wasn’t going to let anyone down. Eva checked the mirror one more time, then pulled up at the curb in front of a hardware store.

“Good morning, ma’am.” The proprietor was a middle-aged, pot-bellied man whose look of surprise made it clear he wasn’t used to seeing women like Eva in his store.

“How do you like the snow?” she asked, trying hard to suppress her accent.

“Just enough to make things pretty,” he said, then blushed a bit as he realized Eva might think he was referring to her. He cleared his throat. “What can I help you with, ma’am?”

Eva rattled off her list. She wanted to be equally prepared to help a saboteur — or an assassin. Fifty feet of good rope, a flashlight, matches, a sharp hunting knife. Oh, and rock salt to melt the ice on her front steps.

“Going camping, are you?” the man asked. “Not the best weather for it.”

“Actually,” said Eva, “I am planning on doing a bit of hunting."