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  “Okay,” Shaftoe said to the men. “We got a few hours to kill.”

  All the men in the truck—except for the SAS blokes working on the Vickers—looked at each other like did he really just say that?

  “Uh, Sarge,” one of them finally said, “could you explain that part about killing some time?”

  “The airplane’s not going to be here for a while. Orders.”

  “Was there a problem or—”

  “Nope. Everything’s going fine. Orders.”

  Beyond that the men didn’t want to gripe, but a lot more looks were exchanged across the bed of the truck. Finally, Enoch Root spoke up, “You men are probably wondering why we couldn’t kill time for a few hours first, before alerting the Germans to our presence, and rendezvous with the plane just in the nick of time.”

  “Yeah!” said a whole bunch of guys and blokes, vigorously nodding.

  “That’s a good question,” said Enoch Root. He said it like he already knew the answer, which made everyone in the truck want to slug him.

  The Germans had deployed some ground units to secure the area’s road intersections. When Detachment 2702 arrived at the first crossroads, all of the Germans were freshly dead, and all they had to do was to slow down momentarily so that some Marine Raiders could run out of hiding and jump on board.

  The Germans at the second intersection had no idea what was going on. This was obviously the result of some kind of internal Wehrmacht communications fuckup, clearly recognizable as such even across cultural and linguistic boundaries. Detachment 2702 were able to simply open fire from underneath the tarp and tear them to pieces, or at least drive them into hiding.

  The next Germans they ran into weren’t having any of it; they had formed a roadblock out of a truck and two cars, and were lined up on the other side of it, pointing weapons at them. All of their weapons looked to be small arms. But by this time the Vickers had finally been put together, calibrated, fine-tuned, inspected, and loaded. The tarp came off. Private Mikulski, a surly, brooding two-hundred-and-fifty-pound Polish-British SAS man, commenced operations with the Vickers at about the same time that the Germans did with their rifles.

  Now when Bobby Shaftoe had gone through high school, he’d been slotted into a vocational track and ended up taking a lot of shop classes. A certain amount of his time was therefore, naturally, devoted to sawing large pieces of wood or metal into smaller pieces. Numerous saws were available in the shop for that purpose, some better than others. A sawing job that would be just ridiculously hard and lengthy using a hand saw would be accomplished with a power saw. Likewise, certain cuts and materials would cause the smaller power saws to overheat or seize up altogether and therefore called for larger power saws. But even with the biggest power saw in the shop, Bobby Shaftoe always got the sense that he was imposing some kind of stress on the machine. It would slow down when the blade contacted the material, it would vibrate, it would heat up, and if you pushed the material through too fast it would threaten to jam. But then one summer he worked in a mill where they had a bandsaw. The bandsaw, its supply of blades, its spare parts, maintenance supplies, special tools and manuals occupied a whole room. It was the only tool he had ever seen with infrastructure. It was the size of a car. The two wheels that drove the blade were giant eight-spoked things that looked to have been salvaged from steam locomotives. Its blades had to be manufactured from long rolls of blade-stuff by unreeling about half a mile of toothed ribbon, cutting it off, and carefully welding the cut ends together into a loop. When you hit the power switch, nothing would happen for a little while except that a subsonic vibration would slowly rise up out of the earth, as if a freight train were approaching from far away, and finally the blade would begin to move, building speed slowly but inexorably until the teeth disappeared and it became a bolt of pure hellish energy stretched taut between the table and the machinery above it. Anecdotes about accidents involving the bandsaw were told in hushed voices and not usually commingled with other industrial-accident anecdotes. Anyway, the most noteworthy thing about the bandsaw was that you could cut anything with it and not only did it do the job quickly and coolly but it didn’t seem to notice that it was doing anything. It wasn’t even aware that a human being was sliding a great big chunk of stuff through it. It never slowed down. Never heated up.

  In Shaftoe’s post-high-school experience he had found that guns had much in common with saws. Guns could fire bullets all right, but they kicked back and heated up, got dirty, and jammed eventually. They could fire bullets in other words, but it was a big deal for them, it placed a certain amount of stress on them, and they could not take that stress forever. But the Vickers in the back of this truck was to other guns as the bandsaw was to other saws. The Vickers was water-cooled. It actually had a fucking radiator on it. It had infrastructure, just like the bandsaw, and a whole crew of technicians to fuss over it. But once the damn thing was up and running, it could fire continuously for days as long as people kept scurrying up to it with more belts of ammunition. After Private Mikulski opened fire with the Vickers, some of the other Detachment 2702 men, eager to pitch in and do their bit, took potshots at those Germans with their rifles, but doing so made them feel so small and pathetic that they soon gave up and just took cover in the ditch and lit up cigarettes and watched the slow progress of the Vickers’ bullet-stream across the roadblock. Mikulski hosed down all of the German vehicles for a while, yawing the Vickers back and forth like a man playing a fire extinguisher against the base of a fire. Then he picked out a few bits of the roadblock that he suspected people might be standing behind and concentrated on them for a while, boring tunnels through the wreckage of the vehicles until he could see what was on the other side, sawing through their frames and breaking them in half. He cut down half a dozen or so roadside trees behind which he suspected Germans were hiding, and then mowed about half an acre of grass.

  By this time it had become evident that some Germans had retreated behind a gentle swell in the earth just off to one side of the road and were taking potshots from there, so Mikulski swung the muzzle of the Vickers up into the air at a steep angle and shot the bullet-stream into the sky so that the bullets plunged down like mortar shells on the other side of the rise. It took him a while to get the angle just right, but then he patiently distributed bullets over the entire field, like a man watering his lawn. One of the SAS blokes actually did some calculations on his knee, figuring out how long Mikulski should keep doing this to make sure that bullets were distributed over the ground in question at the right density—say, one per square foot. When the territory had been properly sown with lead slugs, Mikulski turned back to the roadblock and made sure that the truck pulled across the pavement was in small enough pieces that it could be shoved out of the way by hand.

  Then he ceased firing at last. Shaftoe felt like he should make an entry in a log book, the way ships’ captains do when they pull a man-of-war into port. When they drove past the wreckage, they slowed down for a bit to gawk. The brittle grey iron of the German vehicles’ engine blocks had shattered like glass and you could look into the engines all neatly cross-sectioned and see the gleaming pistons and crankshafts exposed to the sun, bleeding oil and coolant.

  They passed through what was left of the roadblock and drove onwards into a sparsely populated inland area that made excellent strafing territory for the Luftwaffe. The first two fighters that came around were torn apart in midair by Mikulski and his Vickers. The next pair managed to destroy the truck, the big gun, and Private Mikulski in one pass. No one else was hurt; they were all in the ditch, watching as Mikulski sat placidly behind the controls of his weapon, playing chicken with two Messerschmidts and eventually losing.

  By now it was getting dark. The detachment began to make its way cross-country on foot, carrying Mikulski’s remains on a stretcher. They ran into a German patrol and fought it out with them; two of the SAS men were wounded, and one of these had to be carried the rest of the way. Finally they reached their
rendezvous point, a wheat field where they laid down road flares to outline a landing strip for a U.S. Army DC-3, which executed a deft landing, took them all on board, and flew them to Malta without further incident.

  And that was where they were introduced to Lieutenant Monkberg for the first time.

  No sooner had they been debriefed than they were on another submarine, bound for parts unknown or at least unspecified. But when they turned in their warm-weather gear for ten-pound oiled-wool sweaters, they started to get an idea. A few claustrophobic days later, they had been transferred onto this freighter.

  The vessel itself is such a pathetic heap that they have been amusing themselves by substituting the word “shit” for “ship” in various nautical expressions, e.g.: let’s get this cabin shit-shape! Where in hell does the shit’s master think he’s taking us? And so on.

  Now, in the shit’s hold, an impassioned Bobby Shaftoe is doing his best to create a ransacked effect. He strews rifles and tommy guns around the deck. He opens boxes of .45 cartridges and flings them all over the place. He finds some skis, too—they’ll be needing skis, right? He plants mines here and there, just to throw a scare into whatever German happens along to investigate this shitwreck. He opens crates of grenades. These do not look very ransacked, sitting there full, so he pulls out dozens of them, carries them abovedecks, and throws them overboard. He tosses out some skis also—maybe they will wash up on shore somewhere and contribute to the overall sense of chaos that is so important to Lieutenant Monkberg.

  He is on his way across the upper deck, carrying an armload of skis, when something catches his eye out there in the fog. He flinches, of course. Many strafings have turned Bobby Shaftoe into a big flincher. He flinches so hard that he drops all of those skis on the deck and comes this close to throwing himself down among them. But he holds his ground long enough to focus in on this thing in the fog. It is directly in front of them, and somewhat higher than the bridge of the freighter, and (unlike plunging Zeros or Messerschmidts) it is not moving fast—just hanging there. Like a cloud in the sky. As if the fog had coagulated into a dense clump, like his mother’s mashed potatoes. It gets brighter and brighter as he stands there watching it, and the edges get more and more sharply defined, and he starts to see other stuff around it.

  The other stuff is green.

  Hey, wait a minute! He is looking at a green mountainside with a big white snowfield in the middle of it.

  “Heads up!” he screams, and throws himself down on the deck.

  He is hoping to be surprised by the gradualness, the gentleness of their collision with the earth’s crust. He has in mind the kind of deal where you run a little motorboat at a sandy beach, cut the motor and tilt it out of the water at the last minute, and glide up gently onto the cushioning sand.

  This turns out to be a very poor analogy for what happens next. The freighter is actually going a lot faster than your typical putt-putt fishing boat. And instead of gliding up onto a sandy beach, they have a nearly head-on collision with a vertical granite wall. There is a really impressive noise, the prow of the vessel actually bends upwards, and suddenly, Bobby Shaftoe finds that he is sliding on his belly across the ice-glazed deck at a high speed.

  He is terrified, for a moment, that he’s going to slide right off the deck and go flying into the drink, but he manages to steer himself into an anchor chain, which proves an effective stopper. Down below, he can hear approximately ten thousand other small and large objects finding their own obstacles to slam into.

  There follows a brief and almost peaceful interlude of near-total silence. Then a hue and cry rises up from the extremely sparse crew of the freighter: “ABANDON SHIT! ABANDON SHIT!”

  The men of Detachment 2702 head for the lifeboats. Shaftoe knows that they can take care of themselves, so he heads for the bridge, looking for the few oddballs who always find a way to make things interesting: Lieutenants Root and Monkberg, and Corporal Benjamin.

  The first person he sees is the skipper, slumped in a chair, pouring himself a drink and looking like a guy who just bled to death. This poor son of a bitch is a Navy lifer who got detached from his regular unit solely for the purpose of doing what he just did. It clearly does not sit well with him.

  “Nice job, sir!” Shaftoe says, not knowing what else to say. Then he follows the sound of an argument into the signals cabin.

  The dramatis personae are Corporal Benjamin, holding up a large Book, in a pose that recalls an exasperated preacher sarcastically acquainting his wayward parishioners with the unfamiliar sight of the Bible; Lieutenant Monkberg, semireclined in a chair, his damaged Limb up on a table; and Lieutenant Root, doing some needle-and-thread work on same.

  “It is my sworn duty—” Benjamin begins.

  Monkberg interrupts him. “It is your sworn duty, Corporal, to follow my orders!”

  Root’s medical supplies are scattered all over the deck because of the collision. Shaftoe begins to pick them up and sort them out, keeping an especially sharp eye out for any small bottles that may have gone astray.

  Benjamin is very excited. Clearly, he is not getting through to Monkberg, and so he opens up the hefty Book at random and holds it up above his head. It contains line after line, column after column, of random letters. “This,” Benjamin says, “is the Allied MERCHANT SHIPPING CODE! A copy of THIS BOOK is on EVERY SHIP of EVERY CONVOY in the North Atlantic! It is used by those ships to BROADCAST THEIR POSITIONS! Do you UNDERSTAND what is going to HAPPEN if THIS BOOK falls into the hands of THE GERMANS?!”

  “I have given you my order,” Lieutenant Monkberg says.

  They go on in this vein for a couple of minutes as Shaftoe scours the deck for medical debris. Finally he sees what he’s looking for: it has rolled beneath a storage cabinet and appears to be miraculously unscathed.

  “Sergeant Shaftoe!” says Root peremptorily. It is the closest he has ever come to sounding like a military officer. Shaftoe straightens up reflexively.

  “Sir! Yes, sir!”

  “Lieutenant Monkberg’s dose of morphine may wear off pretty soon. I need you to find my morphine bottle and bring it to me right away.”

  “Sir! Yes, sir!” Shaftoe is a Marine, which means he’s really good at following orders even when his body is telling him not to. Even so, his fingers do not want to release their grip on the little bottle, and Root almost has to pry it loose.

  Benjamin and Monkberg, locked in their dispute, are oblivious to this little exchange. “Lieutenant Root!” Benjamin says, his voice now high and trembly.

  “Yes, Corporal,” Root says absent-mindedly.

  “I have reason to believe that Lieutenant Monkberg is a German spy and that he should be relieved of his command of this mission and placed under arrest!”

  “You son of a bitch!” Monkberg shouts. As well he might, since Benjamin has just accused him of treason, for which he could face a firing squad. But Root has Monkberg’s leg clamped in place up there on the table, and he can’t move.

  Root is completely unruffled. He seems to welcome this unbelievably serious accusation. It is an opportunity to talk about something with more substance than, for example, finding ways to substitute the word “shit” for “ship” in nautical expressions.

  “I’ll see you court-martialed for this, you bastard!” Monkberg hollers.

  “Corporal Benjamin, what grounds do you have for this accusation?” says Enoch Root in a lullaby voice.

  “The lieutenant has refused to allow me to destroy the codebooks, which it is my sworn duty to do!” Benjamin shouts. He has completely lost his temper.

  “I am under very specific and clear orders from Colonel Chattan!” Monkberg says, addressing Root. Shaftoe is startled by this. Monkberg seems to be recognizing Root’s authority in the matter. Or maybe he’s scared, and looking for an ally. The officers closing ranks against the enlisted men. As usual.

  “Do you have a written copy of those orders I could examine?” Root says.

  “I don’t thin
k it’s appropriate for us to be having this discussion here and now,” Monkberg says, still pleading and defensive.

  “How would you suggest that we handle it?” Root says, drawing a length of silk through Monkberg’s numbed flesh. “We are aground. The Germans will be here soon. We either leave the code books or we don’t. We have to decide now.”

  Monkberg goes limp and passive in his chair.

  “Can you show me written orders?” Root asks.

  “No. They were given verbally,” Monkberg says.

  “And did these orders specifically mention the code books?” Root asks.

  “They did,” Monkberg says, as if he’s a witness in a courtroom.

  “And did these orders state that the code books were to be allowed to fall into the hands of the Germans?”

  “They did.”

  There is silence for a moment as Root ties off a suture and begins another one. Then he says, “A skeptic, such as Corporal Benjamin, might think that this business of the code books is an invention of yours.”

  “If I falsified my own orders,” Monkberg says, “I could be shot.”

  “Only if you, and some witnesses to the event, all made their way back to friendly territory, and compared notes with Colonel Chattan,” says Enoch Root, coolly and patiently.

  “What the fuck is going on!?” says one of the SAS blokes, bursting in through a hatch down below and charging up the gangway. “We’re all waiting in the fucking lifeboats!” He bursts into the room, his face red with cold and anxiety, and looks around wildly.

  “Fuck off,” Shaftoe says.

  The SAS bloke pulls up short. “Okay, Sarge!”

  “Go down and tell the men in the boats to fuck off too,” Shaftoe says.