We, the Drowned - Carsten Jensen [22]
In response to a particularly cruel reference to the size of his genitalia, Wedel slapped an able seaman, Jørgen Mærke from Nyborg, hard across his face. The fact that Wedel had to stand on tiptoe to do it fueled our mirth—but the slap was a proper one. The seaman stood dazed with shock before hesitantly putting his fingers to his stinging cheek, as though unsure that he'd really been struck.
"Stand to attention, God damn you!" little Wedel roared.
The seaman grabbed Wedel by the shoulders and flung him to the floor, then thrust a heavy sea boot into the boy's chest. A crowd quickly formed around them—not because anyone wanted to rescue the kid, but because here, finally, was a chance to vent our frustrated rage. Wedel was saved only by his screams. Two soldiers from Schleswig-Holstein came charging up the stairs, brandishing their bayonets, but before they reached the boy, Laurids had dispersed the combative crowd, pulling the boy to his feet by the collar while holding off the bystanders with his free hand.
Wedel dangled limp, like a rag doll, fear buckling his legs.
"Now behave," Laurids said in a calm voice.
He'd rediscovered the authority he'd lost on the deck of the ship. The menacing crowd dissolved, and the soldiers led the cadet away.
We heard Wedel sobbing all the way down the stairs.
Later the same evening the cadet recovered his courage. Another loud drinking session was held in the closed room, and from a corner of the loft someone began cursing the noise. It wasn't bedtime yet, but everything about the cadets was beginning to rile us.
We banged on their door, demanding silence. A brazen, high-pitched boy's voice immediately told us to shut up. "Or we'll cut your prick off, you peasant oaf!"
"What did you say?" the seaman roared back.
The drunken men who sat clustered on benches around the sturdy central table staggered to their feet en masse. Hefting a bench, they swung it back and forth as if calculating its weight, then rammed it right into the cadets' door. On the other side, all went quiet.
"Right," shouted one of the men. "Bet you're not feeling quite so cocky now, are you?"
They stepped back for another salvo, then rammed the door again. This time it gave way and they poured into the room, knocking over a table and sending a bottle smashing to the floor. Someone screamed, and the crowd that was gathering outside the cadets' room started cheering the brawling men. Ejnar and Little Clausen stood at the back on tiptoe to catch a glimpse of the fight but could see nothing through the narrow doorway.
Then the German soldiers turned up, alerted by the uproar. Smashing their way through us with the butts of their guns, they broke up the fight.
The brawlers emerged one by one. The cadets' heads hung low, and it was obvious who had borne the brunt. Wedel's nose was bleeding. Another boy had a swollen eye that had already begun to close up. A third spat out a tooth as he came through the door; blood was streaming down his chin.
A cry rang out from the crowd. "Someone's lost a milk tooth!"
Then Commandant Fleischer arrived. He was a sturdy man, with a high forehead and soft curly hair on the back of his neck. His cheeks were flushed and his lips moist; he had gravy on one corner of his mouth, as if he had just left a dinner party and had forgotten to wipe his face.
He was a major, but he instantly disappointed us all with his jovial tone of voice.
"Listen, men, this won't do. You've got to show your officers a bit of respect. Otherwise I'll have to be very strict with you and I don't really want to do that. So let's all try to get along. You'll be exchanged soon and there's really no need for us to fall out while we wait."