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Authors: Herman Wouk
Tags: Historical fiction
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happens to be the central truth of our age.”
Henry was smiling because much of this tirade was in Tudsbury’s book, almost word for word. “Well, it’s the old story of the stitch in time,” he said. “Your politicos could have got the weird little bastard with no trouble early on, but they didn’t. Now they have problems. Incidentally, where are you headed? Berlin, too?”
Tudsbury nodded. “Our Berlin man’s prostate chose an awkward time to act up. A-hawr-hawr! Dr. Goebbels said I could come along and fill in. Amazement! I’ve been persona non grata in the Third Reich since Munich. No doubt I’ll be kicked out on my big arse in a few weeks. For some reason the Jerries are being kind to Englishmen this month. Probably so we’ll hold still while they roll over the Poles. And we will, we will. The Tories are all polite gray worms. Aristocratic funks, Lloyd George called them. Except for Churchill, who’s quite out of it.”
* * *
The American commander and the U-boat man took to meeting in the bar each evening before dinner. Henry figured that it was his job to pump Grobke, as it might well the German’s to work on him. Grobke was a thorough professional, an engineering expert, and a real seafarer. He talked freely about the machinery in the present U-boats, and even confessed to problems with torpedoes, a topic Henry was well versed in, though he discussed it cautiously. In Grobke’s harassed disdain for politicians, he seemed like any American naval man. A satiric look came on his face when he spoke of the Nazis, and he said things that caused his wife, when she was with them, to give him warning glances.
“Alistair Tudsbury said to Pug one evening, as they sat on a couch in the main saloon watching the dancing, “You’ve been fraternizing with Jerry.”
“In the line of business. I doubt Grobke’s a Nazi.”
“Oh, those U-boat fellows are all right, as much as any Germans are.”
“You don’t like the Germans.”
“Well, let’s talk about that after you’ve been there a month. Assuming I haven’t been booted out.”
“Of course I don’t blame you. They gave your people hell.”
“No worse than we gave them. We won, you know.” After a pause he said, “My eyes were spoiled at Amiens, when we broke through with the tanks. I commanded a tank battalion, and was gassed. It was worth it, all in all, to see Jerry on the run. It was a long time coming.”
The captain of the Bremen , at the moment, was dancing with Rhoda. He had long capering legs, strange in a stout man. Rhoda was radiating enjoyment. Pug was glad of this. Night after night she had been dancing with a very tall officer, a blond-eagle type, all clicking bows and glittering blue eyes, who held her a bit too close. Pug had said something about it, and Rhoda had countered with a brief snarl about his spending the trip with his nose in books, and he had let it drop. She was being so complaisant, on the whole, that he only wanted to keep things so.
The captain brought her back. Pamela Tudsbury returned from a listless effort to follow the flailing prances of an American college boy. She said, “I shall get myself a cane and a white wig. They look so shattered if I refuse, but I really can hardly dance, and as for the Lindy Hop –”
The music struck up again, and Rhoda’s tall young officer approached in spotless white and gold. An irritated look crossed Pug’s face. The captain saw it, and under the loud music, as the officer drew near, he muttered half a dozen words. The young man stopped, faded back, and darted out of the saloon. Pug never saw him again.
Rhoda, smiling and about to rise, was baffled by the young German’s peculiar exit.
“Dance, Rhoda?” Pug got to his feet. “What?” she said crossly. “No, thanks.”
Pug extended a hand to the Tudsbury girl. “Pamela?”
She hesitated. “You don’t do the Lindy Hop?” Pug burst out laughing. “Well, one never knows with Americans.”
She danced in a
Henry was smiling because much of this tirade was in Tudsbury’s book, almost word for word. “Well, it’s the old story of the stitch in time,” he said. “Your politicos could have got the weird little bastard with no trouble early on, but they didn’t. Now they have problems. Incidentally, where are you headed? Berlin, too?”
Tudsbury nodded. “Our Berlin man’s prostate chose an awkward time to act up. A-hawr-hawr! Dr. Goebbels said I could come along and fill in. Amazement! I’ve been persona non grata in the Third Reich since Munich. No doubt I’ll be kicked out on my big arse in a few weeks. For some reason the Jerries are being kind to Englishmen this month. Probably so we’ll hold still while they roll over the Poles. And we will, we will. The Tories are all polite gray worms. Aristocratic funks, Lloyd George called them. Except for Churchill, who’s quite out of it.”
* * *
The American commander and the U-boat man took to meeting in the bar each evening before dinner. Henry figured that it was his job to pump Grobke, as it might well the German’s to work on him. Grobke was a thorough professional, an engineering expert, and a real seafarer. He talked freely about the machinery in the present U-boats, and even confessed to problems with torpedoes, a topic Henry was well versed in, though he discussed it cautiously. In Grobke’s harassed disdain for politicians, he seemed like any American naval man. A satiric look came on his face when he spoke of the Nazis, and he said things that caused his wife, when she was with them, to give him warning glances.
“Alistair Tudsbury said to Pug one evening, as they sat on a couch in the main saloon watching the dancing, “You’ve been fraternizing with Jerry.”
“In the line of business. I doubt Grobke’s a Nazi.”
“Oh, those U-boat fellows are all right, as much as any Germans are.”
“You don’t like the Germans.”
“Well, let’s talk about that after you’ve been there a month. Assuming I haven’t been booted out.”
“Of course I don’t blame you. They gave your people hell.”
“No worse than we gave them. We won, you know.” After a pause he said, “My eyes were spoiled at Amiens, when we broke through with the tanks. I commanded a tank battalion, and was gassed. It was worth it, all in all, to see Jerry on the run. It was a long time coming.”
The captain of the Bremen , at the moment, was dancing with Rhoda. He had long capering legs, strange in a stout man. Rhoda was radiating enjoyment. Pug was glad of this. Night after night she had been dancing with a very tall officer, a blond-eagle type, all clicking bows and glittering blue eyes, who held her a bit too close. Pug had said something about it, and Rhoda had countered with a brief snarl about his spending the trip with his nose in books, and he had let it drop. She was being so complaisant, on the whole, that he only wanted to keep things so.
The captain brought her back. Pamela Tudsbury returned from a listless effort to follow the flailing prances of an American college boy. She said, “I shall get myself a cane and a white wig. They look so shattered if I refuse, but I really can hardly dance, and as for the Lindy Hop –”
The music struck up again, and Rhoda’s tall young officer approached in spotless white and gold. An irritated look crossed Pug’s face. The captain saw it, and under the loud music, as the officer drew near, he muttered half a dozen words. The young man stopped, faded back, and darted out of the saloon. Pug never saw him again.
Rhoda, smiling and about to rise, was baffled by the young German’s peculiar exit.
“Dance, Rhoda?” Pug got to his feet. “What?” she said crossly. “No, thanks.”
Pug extended a hand to the Tudsbury girl. “Pamela?”
She hesitated. “You don’t do the Lindy Hop?” Pug burst out laughing. “Well, one never knows with Americans.”
She danced in a
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