We, the Drowned - Carsten Jensen [288]
The Dannevang keeled over. The sound of explosions came from the engine room as the water reached the hot boilers, and lumps of coal flew out of the shattered skylight. The stern rose up in the water, and the screw gave a brief screech as it spun around for the last time. Then it stopped, and all over the ship the lights went out.
Knud Erik closed his eyes. Albert had dreamt this moment. He'd seen a sinking steamer and he'd described everything. Just as it was happening now.
When he opened them again, the sea had closed over the Dannevang.
The men sat in the lifeboat and watched, their wool-lined Elsinore caps in their hands. No one spoke. Knud Erik felt the captain ought to say a prayer. Or recite the funeral text from the Book of Sermons. How the hell were you supposed to send off a ship?
The steward was puffing on a cigarette; its tip glowed red in the night.
"A cigarette would be welcome right now."
It was Boye who broke the silence. He looked at the steward. "Hammerslev, did you remember the cigarette cartons?" The steward nudged the mess boy, who looked miserable. "The cigarettes, Niels."
The mess boy dived under the stern thwart and triumphantly pulled out a carton. They got a pack each. They'd been forced to leave their sea chests and sea bags on board—there wasn't room for them in the lifeboat. Now all they owned were the clothes they were wearing, their discharge books, and their passports, which proved that they belonged to a nation that no longer existed because the war had swallowed it up. And a pack of cigarettes.
It was all right. They would manage. They were alive, and soon their lungs would be filled with smoke.
"The matches," Boye said. "Where are the damn matches?" He looked sternly at the mess boy. "I'm throwing you overboard if you've forgotten them."
The mess boy flung out his hands in desperation. "It all happened so fast," he said. So the steward passed his lit cigarette around, and soon seventeen tiny red dots glowed in the winter darkness. Dawn was still a few hours away.
"Niels," the captain said to the mess boy. "It's your job to make sure that at least one cigarette is always lit, even if you have to smoke in your sleep. Is that clear?"
The mess boy nodded gravely and puffed away as if his life depended on the orange spark in front of his nose.
Knud Erik looked around. It had been a good crew. He'd been first mate on the Dannevang for three years. On board were seven men from Marstal and one from Ommel. The rest were from Lolland and Falster. Now they'd be scattered all over the place.
A couple of years later he would return to this moment and do the math. Of the seventeen survivors of the Dannevang, eight were dead: the captain, the second mate, the steward, an able seaman, two ordinary seamen, a junior ordinary seaman, and the chief engineer. Five were Marstallers. Captain Boye was run down by an American convoy ship. The junior ordinary seaman was on board a munitions ship when she was torpedoed. There'd been only three survivors out of a crew of forty-nine, and he wasn't one of them.
But right now they were all together, waiting for dawn. They were close to the English coast and they knew they'd be spotted soon. Death was the last thing on their minds. Their only concern was keeping the red glow of the cigarettes going until they were picked up.
THE CREW OF the Dannevang remained unemployed for a few weeks in Newcastle, where they spent most of the time at the newly opened Danish Seamen's Club, honing their pool skills. It wasn't exactly that they missed the air raids, mines, and U-boats: any nostalgia for bombs could be easily satisfied by taking a stroll around the docks. It wasn't as bad as London, but almost. No, the fact was they'd made a choice, and it seemed ludicrous to spend a world war playing pool. Besides, the food ashore was disgusting. Powdered eggs, Spam, and