the errors in the treachery at Versailles that followed the Great War. The Allied politicians, seeking their revenge, put Germans in France, Germans in Austria, Germans in Czechoslovakia— a bastard creation of a country that didn't even exist!—and Germans in Poland. Christ, Poland! Another geographic monstrosity! Another historical aberration! And that's supposed to solve something? Give Germany Germany. That's all Hitler is asking. Can't you agree?"
Hart was cautious. "European history is confusing to Americans, I'm afraid."
"Justice is not, I hope."
"And flags are irrelevant in an Antarctic storm."
The German smiled thinly. "Then why does every nation take them there?"
* * *
The docks were beginning to empty and the ship to settle lower in the water. Departure was drawing near. One night a gray military truck pulled onto the dock and a dozen muscular young men leaped off, shouldered seabags, and bounded up the gangplank to disappear without a word into the forecastle. They wouldn't appear on deck again until the ship had entered the North Sea, went the rumor around ship. Drexler was closeted with them.
"Naval marines, I'll bet," Fritz offered. "Or something worse."
Marines had never been discussed in conversations about the provisioning of the expedition, so Hart mentioned their sudden appearance to the political liaison. Drexler looked faintly disapproving.
"Those men are not your concern."
"But why marines in the Antarctic?"
"I didn't say they were marines."
"Then what are they?"
Drexler sighed. "Those men are simply security, Hart, specialists from the Schutzstaffel, the SS. Elite troops."
"Then they are your men?"
"They are my responsibility. But I'm a civilian in the SS, not a soldier. An advisor, not a general. They take guidance from me."
"Why soldiers in Antarctica?"
"They're mountaineers trained for extreme conditions, a precaution against rash action by Norwegian whalers or anyone else we might encounter. You know better than I how far we'll be from civilization. It would be imprudent not to include such protection to ensure the safety of our mission."
"We won't encounter anyone. There's no one down there."
"That's not true. Half the world is ahead of us down there. Really, Hart, this is exactly the kind of situation we discussed in the galley. Our polar flight is your business. The makeup of our complement is not." And with that he walked away.
* * *
Greta arrived a day later, only one day prior to sailing. Hart encountered her in a passageway, trailing another seaman who was carrying a seabag to her cabin.
"Ah, so I see they let the other oddball on board," she said brightly. "First an American horns in, now I arrive. What do you think— is there room enough on this ship for a woman?"
"Oh, I'm sure you'll have no problem," said Hart. "They'll soon be admiring your gumption."
"Gumption?" She was puzzled.
"Guts. Courage. It takes a lot of both to be going where you're going."
"Oh, I have my chaperon. Jürgen is determined to look after me." She laughed, but Hart wasn't sure she found that idea unappealing or ridiculous. "And a pilot guide from America!" she added. "You won't let me get lost, will you?"
He smiled uncertainly. "You seem to know your way."
"Hardly!" She laughed again and was off down a passageway, calling over her shoulder, "I can barely find my way around this ship!"
Women are bad luck, he reminded himself as he stared after her. Remembering her smile.
CHAPTER SIX
The Schwabenland left Hamburg at six in the morning on December 1, 1938, casting off in a chill drizzle. Europe was electric with tension as Czechoslovakia was absorbed into the Reich and civil war neared its climax in Spain, a war the fascists appeared destined to win. Hart was largely oblivious to such events, engrossed in the details of expedition preparation. With Teutonic efficiency, the aircraft mechanics had stocked two of everything. Hart suggested they get three. The pilots had requested two
Hart was cautious. "European history is confusing to Americans, I'm afraid."
"Justice is not, I hope."
"And flags are irrelevant in an Antarctic storm."
The German smiled thinly. "Then why does every nation take them there?"
* * *
The docks were beginning to empty and the ship to settle lower in the water. Departure was drawing near. One night a gray military truck pulled onto the dock and a dozen muscular young men leaped off, shouldered seabags, and bounded up the gangplank to disappear without a word into the forecastle. They wouldn't appear on deck again until the ship had entered the North Sea, went the rumor around ship. Drexler was closeted with them.
"Naval marines, I'll bet," Fritz offered. "Or something worse."
Marines had never been discussed in conversations about the provisioning of the expedition, so Hart mentioned their sudden appearance to the political liaison. Drexler looked faintly disapproving.
"Those men are not your concern."
"But why marines in the Antarctic?"
"I didn't say they were marines."
"Then what are they?"
Drexler sighed. "Those men are simply security, Hart, specialists from the Schutzstaffel, the SS. Elite troops."
"Then they are your men?"
"They are my responsibility. But I'm a civilian in the SS, not a soldier. An advisor, not a general. They take guidance from me."
"Why soldiers in Antarctica?"
"They're mountaineers trained for extreme conditions, a precaution against rash action by Norwegian whalers or anyone else we might encounter. You know better than I how far we'll be from civilization. It would be imprudent not to include such protection to ensure the safety of our mission."
"We won't encounter anyone. There's no one down there."
"That's not true. Half the world is ahead of us down there. Really, Hart, this is exactly the kind of situation we discussed in the galley. Our polar flight is your business. The makeup of our complement is not." And with that he walked away.
* * *
Greta arrived a day later, only one day prior to sailing. Hart encountered her in a passageway, trailing another seaman who was carrying a seabag to her cabin.
"Ah, so I see they let the other oddball on board," she said brightly. "First an American horns in, now I arrive. What do you think— is there room enough on this ship for a woman?"
"Oh, I'm sure you'll have no problem," said Hart. "They'll soon be admiring your gumption."
"Gumption?" She was puzzled.
"Guts. Courage. It takes a lot of both to be going where you're going."
"Oh, I have my chaperon. Jürgen is determined to look after me." She laughed, but Hart wasn't sure she found that idea unappealing or ridiculous. "And a pilot guide from America!" she added. "You won't let me get lost, will you?"
He smiled uncertainly. "You seem to know your way."
"Hardly!" She laughed again and was off down a passageway, calling over her shoulder, "I can barely find my way around this ship!"
Women are bad luck, he reminded himself as he stared after her. Remembering her smile.
CHAPTER SIX
The Schwabenland left Hamburg at six in the morning on December 1, 1938, casting off in a chill drizzle. Europe was electric with tension as Czechoslovakia was absorbed into the Reich and civil war neared its climax in Spain, a war the fascists appeared destined to win. Hart was largely oblivious to such events, engrossed in the details of expedition preparation. With Teutonic efficiency, the aircraft mechanics had stocked two of everything. Hart suggested they get three. The pilots had requested two
Similar Books
