lucid, honest self-criticism' stimu-
lated by the morning's disaster and the hard realization
that in days to come others would join Karl Franck in
dole and foreign graves. Until today Death had always
48
r
been a remote acquaintance, more often a visitor to oth-
ers' lives than his own. But now, with fresh earth mound-
ed in a meadow nearby, he knew that pale rider had
promised him closer attention. And he was afraid, afraid
of a thousand things, things not of the world beyond, but
of this, all the grim milestones along the road to his own
dread appointment, all the things he would lose if he went
too young.
The greatest loss would be Karen and a child as yet
unborn. Karen, who had a harpy's beak and talons one
minute, who was his warm Juliet the next, who was his
Ruth and his Delilah, his Lysistrata and Helen. He was an
Odysseus bound for the arms of a Penelope through a
thousand Homeric terrors, by an equally circuituous route
(his mind wandered in a maze of ancient images, the
Peloponnesian War, the thousand ships and Illium, the
horse, those who fell, the small reasons why, and he
wondered at the lack of change in Man over the millen-
nia)—but Odysseus was a hero and inveterate cutthroat.
Kurt could not picture himself the same, a bloodthirsty
swashbuckler eager for perils and plights....
As Karen had said one day, three months past, when
Dancer had again put in at Kiel and Kurt had dragged her
down to meet his Danish friends, he was not the type. She
had had a tongue of bitterness that day, was still plaguing him for having talked Otto into going to the War. After a
quick tour of the boat, she had said, "I can see why you felt at home. It's a lot like you, small, antiquated, with no real goals or purpose, and a rotten stench inside. Real
heroic."
And he had thought, This's the woman I love? Natural-
ly, he had grown angry, there had been a scene, and he
had accused her of being a bigger bitch than her mother,
which had led to one of those arguments about mothers-
in-law.
Yet he missed her. The harsh times quickly lost their
hurting edges and he yearned for good times better
remembered, the hand-in-hand days, the arm-in-arm days.
He wished he could have yielded, could have stayed.
At last, sleep came.
Kurt rose muttering when reveille sounded. He rushed
through his shower, shave, and dressing, and was on his
way to the mess decks in minutes, determined to get one
good meal that day. It would be a long one, with dinner
and supper served on station.
Dawn was but a hint of light in the east, over the
shadowy bones of low mountains. The Captain had kept
49
his promise of an early start. Already the rafts were being maneuvered into position. Tripods mounting blocks and
tackle had been rigged aboard them. The starboard an-
chor chain began paying out as the sun first broke over
the spine of the mountains. Jager swung slightly when
she neared its end, the current pushing her inshore just
enough to make her officers nervous. Commander Haber,
who had the conn, ordered the port anchor dropped. Once
it was holding, he had the starboard winched in.
Slowly, slowly, alternating anchors, Jager kedged
downriver. A few hundred meters, a kilometer, two, and,
toward sundown, three, into the wide place Kurt remem-
bered. Before she ceased operations for the day, men put
out in boats to take soundings. There was room to turn.
Kurt and Hans, with Haber and Lindemann, watched
from the port wing as the deck force rigged the damaged
propeller for use as a stern anchor, to hold the vessel
while the current turned her end for end. On the forecas-
tle, another party waited to up anchor. The sun had not
yet risen. Wan light, filtered through clouds over the
eastern mountains, barely illuminated the vessel, gray light on gray, with gray ashore—the perfect world for the
warship. The propeller, attached to a heavy mooring line,
splashed over the stern.
"Take in the
lated by the morning's disaster and the hard realization
that in days to come others would join Karl Franck in
dole and foreign graves. Until today Death had always
48
r
been a remote acquaintance, more often a visitor to oth-
ers' lives than his own. But now, with fresh earth mound-
ed in a meadow nearby, he knew that pale rider had
promised him closer attention. And he was afraid, afraid
of a thousand things, things not of the world beyond, but
of this, all the grim milestones along the road to his own
dread appointment, all the things he would lose if he went
too young.
The greatest loss would be Karen and a child as yet
unborn. Karen, who had a harpy's beak and talons one
minute, who was his warm Juliet the next, who was his
Ruth and his Delilah, his Lysistrata and Helen. He was an
Odysseus bound for the arms of a Penelope through a
thousand Homeric terrors, by an equally circuituous route
(his mind wandered in a maze of ancient images, the
Peloponnesian War, the thousand ships and Illium, the
horse, those who fell, the small reasons why, and he
wondered at the lack of change in Man over the millen-
nia)—but Odysseus was a hero and inveterate cutthroat.
Kurt could not picture himself the same, a bloodthirsty
swashbuckler eager for perils and plights....
As Karen had said one day, three months past, when
Dancer had again put in at Kiel and Kurt had dragged her
down to meet his Danish friends, he was not the type. She
had had a tongue of bitterness that day, was still plaguing him for having talked Otto into going to the War. After a
quick tour of the boat, she had said, "I can see why you felt at home. It's a lot like you, small, antiquated, with no real goals or purpose, and a rotten stench inside. Real
heroic."
And he had thought, This's the woman I love? Natural-
ly, he had grown angry, there had been a scene, and he
had accused her of being a bigger bitch than her mother,
which had led to one of those arguments about mothers-
in-law.
Yet he missed her. The harsh times quickly lost their
hurting edges and he yearned for good times better
remembered, the hand-in-hand days, the arm-in-arm days.
He wished he could have yielded, could have stayed.
At last, sleep came.
Kurt rose muttering when reveille sounded. He rushed
through his shower, shave, and dressing, and was on his
way to the mess decks in minutes, determined to get one
good meal that day. It would be a long one, with dinner
and supper served on station.
Dawn was but a hint of light in the east, over the
shadowy bones of low mountains. The Captain had kept
49
his promise of an early start. Already the rafts were being maneuvered into position. Tripods mounting blocks and
tackle had been rigged aboard them. The starboard an-
chor chain began paying out as the sun first broke over
the spine of the mountains. Jager swung slightly when
she neared its end, the current pushing her inshore just
enough to make her officers nervous. Commander Haber,
who had the conn, ordered the port anchor dropped. Once
it was holding, he had the starboard winched in.
Slowly, slowly, alternating anchors, Jager kedged
downriver. A few hundred meters, a kilometer, two, and,
toward sundown, three, into the wide place Kurt remem-
bered. Before she ceased operations for the day, men put
out in boats to take soundings. There was room to turn.
Kurt and Hans, with Haber and Lindemann, watched
from the port wing as the deck force rigged the damaged
propeller for use as a stern anchor, to hold the vessel
while the current turned her end for end. On the forecas-
tle, another party waited to up anchor. The sun had not
yet risen. Wan light, filtered through clouds over the
eastern mountains, barely illuminated the vessel, gray light on gray, with gray ashore—the perfect world for the
warship. The propeller, attached to a heavy mooring line,
splashed over the stern.
"Take in the
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